Un Livre des Herbes Foncées, A Dark Herbal
by The Stars Hold Nine Serpents
Summary: A scientist attempts to explain the magic at Hogwarts, but is ill-prepared for what she discovers - especially when her discovery involves the enigmatic Snape.
1. Thornapple

Chapter One - _Thornapple_

  
  


Through the symmetrical glass eyes of a lone casement window, I cast my gaze west. The shoulders of the land lay warm in the fading sun, and the tree tops dipped and bowed to her glory. Beyond them lay the lake and the forest, and further still, the sea; the cold and unforgiving body that encompassed seemingly all. If the wind slept, its roar could be heard across the distance like an awakening beast, soft yet terrible.

But the wind did not sleep today in the softening dusk. It raced playfully about the land, over hills and through branches, to hurl itself at the battlements and buttresses of Hogwarts. It sang high and loud at the window at which I stood. It sounded through my being; it called me into the abyss with whispers and laughter. It was a perverse invitation.

A whirling blackness appeared upon a near hill; a compact tornado composed of cloth and flesh. The figure stood alone against tree and sky, and gold and crimson leaves arose and circled his orbit like so many exotic moons, tumbling and floating.__

His silhouette absorbed the light around him-such was always its way-and the sun in all of her radiance dimmed in his presence. Several ravens took wing from their place on a watchful branch and soared toward the dying sun, calling to one another for the birth of nightfall. He remained stationary for a time, patiently allowing the wind to have its way with the tousled locks and robes that swept around him in a black inferno. He watched the red ceiling of the sky grow like a stain, deepening and spreading on the cloth of the world. He then turned and looked toward my window unexpectedly. Wisps of black hair teased his lips; his eyes narrowed in the darkening light. I stepped back as though a blow had befallen my chest.

_ Damn him. Damn him and this power he has, this unending desire, this longing. Damn myself-for I cannot feel otherwise. Will I never be at peace?_

His gaze pinned me to the casement. Unable to either move or breathe, I stood, a shape against the firelight behind me_, _and searched his countenance for what motives lay beneath. His features made nothing apparent. Stoicism was etchedinto his very posture; something akin to cruelty-_or was it anger?_-curled the left side of his mouthup ever so softly.The night swiftly blanketed him from my sight at last, and when again I searched for his figure upon the crown of the hill, I saw that he had gone.

My breath returned to me. A slow anger was then born in the pit of my stomach, flaring red and hot_, _accompanied by its brothers, self-loathing and pain, until I was consumed by it. I put my hand to my brow and willed myself to not give in to weeping. 

"Come awayfrom the window."

Octavia. I lifted my head to see her sittingin a chair in front of the fireplace. The flames flickered in the lenses of her wire spectacles as she pointed to the wing chair adjacent. 

"You come and sit yourself right here where I can see you."

"However did you get in again?" I asked sullenly, crossing the room to drop myself in the specified chair. I glared up at her, allowing, to my shame, my anger to seek her out.

"Hmph," she snorted. "We've been over this." She held her wand up to my view and lifted her brows. I got the distinct impression that she believed herself to be talking to an extremely dull-witted child. If she had felt any of my anger, she tactfully ignored it.

"Oh yes," I growled, unable to keep the bitterness at bay, "how could I _possibly_ forget? I am, after all, in a _magical_ castle, where _magical_ people reside and learn, and where anything is possible, am I right?" I loathed the ugliness in my voice, but I could not stop it from coloring my words. And I knew that Octavia would forgive it. I forced myself to say in a quieter tone, "Well, of course, not _anything_."

"Let me tell you something," Octavia snapped as she leaned forward and pointed her wand at me. "You've got every right to be here. _Every _right. Don't you let that man play you like this, make you feel inadequate, unwanted." Her gaze softened. "No. Not unwanted." She reached a hand out to my knee and grasped it. "No matter what people say or think-especially _that_ fool-" she nodded toward the window, "you know you belong in our world. You always have."

I remained silent. I did not have the courage to disagree with her kind words, untrue though they were. She reclined back into her chair. 

"Damn idiot," she mumbled. "Serves him right, if you want to know what _I _think. All storm and ice and junk. Hmph." She shot a calculated look at me. "You're not thinking of going back now." It was not a question.

"How can I not?" I said miserably. "There is no reason for me to remain. Now that I think on it, there was never any reason for me to come in the first place. My work has led me to nothing. I think, perhaps, I would be far better off in the world _I _know." I contemplated the flames in the fireplace, losing myself in their brightness, their hot beauty. "_My _world."

Octavia sighed.

"Well now, you know I can't stop you from doing what you think is right. You've always been the stubbornest girl I ever did meet. But let me tell you, if ever I thought you were making a mistake, it would be to leave Hogwarts. Nothing is for certain, you know damn well that's the truth, especially here in a place like this. And maybe even where Snape is concerned."

The sound of his name fueled my resolve.

"I'm leaving for London in the morning," I said firmly. "I'm going back to my old life, my job, my _muggle_ friends, as you call them." The anger was again surfacing. "I'm decided. It will be the only thing that can save me from myself. And nothing you say or _Professor _Snape says will alter that decision. Nothing. In a few hours' time I'll be back in the world I know, and I will forget all about this place and that. . ._horrible_ man."

Octavia's lips thinned into a straight line as she regarded my words. 

We sat in silence for a time.

"What about Penelope?" she asked gently.

"What about her?"

"She won't understand."

"She doesn't need to know," I replied. "No one needs to know."

"She'll think you're abandoning her."

"I'll leave a note."

"I've never known you to be selfish. It's very . . . unbecoming."

"What you regard as selfishness is simply self-preservation."

"You would be a fool to leave now."

"Quite the contrary. I've already been made a fool."

The firelight blazed in Octavia's spectacles as she slowly rose from her chair, her large, black-clad form shadowing me in darkness. 

"Have it your way," she said simply. She walked slowly to the door and stopped with her hand on the doorknob before turning to look at me. "You'll be forgetting about me too, then, won't you now?" She absorbed my silence, nodded, then opened the door and stepped into the outer hallway. "But there's one thing I'm sure about."

"And what is that?" I managed to ask. I had to once again restrain myself from sinking into despair as my friend's eyes found mine.

"There's still a few hours left for you here. And _anything_ is possible." Her face, so used to mirth, revealed uncharacteristic sadness. "Whether you believe that or not."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My childhood, I can say with confidence, was completely unremarkable. Aside from the occasional family trip or schoolyard drama, there was very little upheaval. That is not to say that I was unhappy, for my parents were more than kind and attentive, and as their only child, I was often content in my solitude.

On occasion, I would see or hear things that made little sense to my young mind, but I was quick to dismiss them as mere mind tricks or waking dreams. In retrospect, if I had been a more inquisitive, creative child, my life may have been quite different. But I was not.

My parents were spirited and open-minded, and my mother, a dark-eyed beauty from the Basque region, was deeply romantic and prone to daydreams. She would tell me fantastical stories when I was lying abed ill, or when she found me alone on the front steps as I watched London go by. She would press me to take part in fanciful theatrical sketches of her own creation, and, donned in rich and beautiful costumes from her wardrobe, I would fight an imaginary usurper bent on destroying a hapless village, or help rescue an imprisoned princess from a terrible end. 

And although I greatly enjoyed these activities for a time, I would soon tire of them and declare to my mother: "This is quite silly. Why should people who have magical wands and such not simply transport themselves elsewhere? Why do they allow a tyrant to bully them? Surely, if they can do magic, they could naturally make the tyrant disappear into thin air."

My mother would sit then, and look at me as though the world's sadness was carried on the shoulders of one woman, and say: "Even their world has rules, Davina, natural laws. If it were not so, there would be no harmony, only chaos. Yes, they may have at their disposal such things that would make one think they could easily do anything, perhaps even save themselves, but it is the _individual_ who carries the ability to make things happen, not a wand or a spell alone. There is great honor in using one's own strength to overcome adversity, one's own undying spirit. Without that. . ." she would then hold out her hand to me and beckon me into her lap. "Without that, well then, that is all such things as wands and spells are . . . just pieces of wood and muttered words. What one _does_ with such things . . . _that_ is the measure of an individual."

"I still think they could do something to defend themselves, something . . . not terrible," I would mutter. "They could turn the tyrant into a large ice lolly, perhaps. Surely that would make everyone happy, then."

My mother would then sigh and slip me off of her lap. 

"Well, I can see to where your mind has diverted. Let's go have an ice lolly then, shall we? We shall save the village yet." 

And I was quite satisfied with the world. 

And then Penelope was born.

Penelope Knight burst into our lives in my 17th year. My parents were beyond delighted, as she was the sibling they had so longed for me to have in my childhood. For my part, I was somewhat perplexed, as I had grown quite used to being the only child in my parents' lives, and was unsure what feelings would surface over this new addition. 

But as time passed, I grew to love Penelope as deeply as my parents loved her, and as I was now a young adult, feelings of jealousy that may have been unavoidable in my youth never stirred within me. I watched over her protectively, and was pleased at the amount of joy she gave my parents. 

Many times my mother would call to my father across our small, enclosed yard: "Daniel! Come quickly! You must see what she is doing now! It's wonderful!" And my father would scramble to his feet and stride into the house, leaving me to smile into the book I was perusing on the steps.

I was due to go to university the following year, and I spent a great deal of time preparing my materials and inflating my expectations as my parents, more and more often, would bend close to one another and whisper secretively across the room from me. One night I could stand it no longer, and teasingly asked: "What exactly are you two conspiring over there?"

Their reactions were anything but what I had expected: my father sat quite upright and looked at my mother guiltily; my mother simply looked away and into the fire. I set my book down in growing alarm and stood up.

"What is it? Has something happened?" 

"No, no," replied my father, "all is well." Then, more sheepishly: "We were discussing the possibility of moving . . . perhaps somewhere in the country. We think it would be best . . .for Penelope."

"Oh," I replied, a bit puzzled. 

"We won't move until you are well situated at university, of course," continued my father, "and you shall come out to the country on your holidays, naturally. Penelope would be disappointed if you did not. Your mother and I just think that Penelope would do well to be brought up in the country."

"Why," I asked, "do I get the distinct impression that there is something you are reluctant to tell me?" I willed my mother to look at me, to say something-anything-to put my increasing concern to rest.

She at last rose from her chair and walked toward the stairs.

"I think, Daniel, that it would be best if she saw for herself. We cannot keep it from her forever."

Shooting a questioning glance at my father, I followed my mother up the stairs and into the nursery, where Penelope slept fitfully in her crib. As I approached, however, I noticed that there were several soft lights floating above her; a starry crown floating inches over her head that cast a golden, peaceful light upon her slumbering features.

"What is this? It's very pretty, isn't it? Is it a new toy or something?"

I reached a hand out to touch one of the lights, and my fingers met thin air. I leaned closer, amazed by this new contraption, but still puzzled as to why such a thing would cause my parents to act so oddly. Only when I was very, very close, when my breath stirred Penelope's blonde locks, did I see that it was in actuality a miniature universe. Small, bright planets rotated gently around a central sun, and infinitesimal bits of light shot off through the surrounding space like sparks; a flea's cosmos.

"Wherever did you find this?" I whispered, entranced. "It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen." I slowly spread my fingers and attempted to gather the matter into my hand, as though strumming a spider's web, only to have my fingers again pass through it blindly.

"We didn't find it," said my mother's voice from behind me. "She . . .created it."

"Come on, don't have a laugh now. Seriously, where did it come from?" I gazed down on Penelope, watching the lights project shadows on her eyelids, her cheeks. 

My mother sighed, and I felt her warm hand on my shoulder. 

"Davina, don't you see? Those games we played when you were young, they were not _truly_ games. It was my way of expressing something to you, my way of bringing . . .something out in you that I and your father share, and that we hoped you shared as well. Something _magical_. Something-"

I abruptly turned to look at her. Her face was a picture of sorrow. And yet I detected a certain excitement dancing in the depths her eyes. Madness?

"What are you about?" I asked, backing away from the crib. "What are you saying?"

My mother looked warily at my father for a moment, then pulled a polished stick from her skirt pocket. As I watched, aghast, she approached the crib silently and pointed the end of the stick at the floating stars. They began to swirl more rapidly, faster and faster, until they formed a brilliant wheel of light over the crib. Then, to my utter astonishment, the wheel burst open to emit dozens of goldfish, swirling in gauzy, translucent fins of light, that floated out and swam into the darkened corners of the room and landed like warm kisses over my arms and head before dissolving into nothing.

"Magic," my mother said simply, as though that one word explained life's deepest mysteries. 

"What? I don't understand!" I cried. "What is this?"

"Your mother and I wanted to tell you, Davina," interjected my father, "but when it was apparent that you were not . . .magically inclined, we decided it was best to simply raise you as normally as possible. We kept it from you, not out of meanness, but out of love. We wanted you to have a life free of confusion, free of persecution, free of hurt. We wanted you to have friends that were like you, to live in a world that you understood."

I stood in the nursery, open-mouthed and dumbfounded.

"You are nearly a grown woman now," my mother said gently, "and you have a right to know, to make your own decisions about these matters. As Penelope grows up, we want her to be able to cultivate her abilities in an environment that encourages such a thing. That is why we are taking her out of London; we don't want her to be afraid of being who she is."

She reached forward and took my limp hand into hers. I looked back at her, unseeing.

"Please forgive us for keeping it from you, my love. We never meant to hurt you, you must believe that. Our greatest wish is that you will accept us, accept what we have told you, and understand that magic is an integral part of our lives; it has always been a part of yours, though you never saw it."

"But . . .but. . ." I stammered, attempting to find some sanity in the lunacy that surrounded me. "But that can't be! Magic simply doesn't exist!" I cried. "Do you hear me? It _doesn't _exist!"


	2. Belladonna

  


Chapter Two - _Belladonna_

  
  
  


It was with no little amount of hopelessness and vexation that I lay awake in the sprawling bed under the arched roof of my Hogwarts bedroom. My eyes roamed across the long, stone Gothic fingers that splayed themselves in perfect arrangement across the ceiling and into the corners of the room; the ancient elegance of my surroundings bred in my soul the vague sensation of being entombed, though that was, I admitted to myself, a fairly new appraisal. A storm had recently broken, and the flickering white light from that tempest served to plant within my mind the image of that infamous symbol: Harry Potter's scar.

I had seen the boy Harry Potter on several occasions, though I had never talked to him directly. I would catch a glimpse of his robed form between hallways and great wooden doors; eating amongst friends in the Great Hall; plunging and drifting like a hawk during an exceptionally dramatic Quidditch match. I had heard many rumors, none of which I could say with any certainty were true, but that were interesting nonetheless. And, of course, I knew what Severus felt for him. He had staunchly tried to keep those sentiments disguised, but his behavior betrayed him mercilessly. Whatever resolve or composure he normally carried with him would abandon him in the presence of that slight, mop-haired adolescent. While I knew his resentment was the product of an affair Harry had no intentional part of, he simply could not stop himself from punishing the boy with venomous words or the threat of expulsion.

_You had been warned. He is a deluge of darkness, an assembly of unspeakable power and rampant conflict. Your light could not help but be diminished in the face of such a void . . . you had been warned._

So I had. And I had failed to heed such warnings. I had failed miserably.

Unable to remain tranquil, I rose from the bed and paced the room ferociously. I would occasionally stop and lay my fingers on the small writing desk and consider the possibility of writing a letter to Penelope, to explain my abrupt departure, my odd behavior these past few moths-indeed, my entire life - and to make it clear that I was in no way turning my back on her. No, what I was turning my back on was Hogwarts. And _him_.

I found the decanter of wine I kept tucked away in the desk drawer and only hesitated a moment before uncorking the potent liquid and pouring a generous amount into a glass goblet that had been waiting on the desktop for just such an occasion. The wine sparkled like a thousand garnets behind the etched glass, and as I brought it to my lips I wondered, not for the first time, if a wayward potion had found its home within it; perhaps - just perhaps - I held my death in my own hands. Too indifferent to care, I had it finished in mere moments, and after a second allotment, I was feeling far more placid. 

After some contemplation and a third goblet, it seemed to me only fair to Penelope that I speak with her in person. No doubt her entire dormitory would be asleep by now, and so all that would be required of me would be to slip in quietly, or at the very least have another student retrieve her.

As my path seemed now suddenly quite clear to me, I threw a hooded cloak over my shoulders and did not pause as I tucked my hair into the hood and stepped into the outer hallway.

Only the sporadic white flashes of lightning illuminated the hall, and I was forced to walk with my hand to the limestone wall as I cautiously made my way toward the staircase that I knew lay beyond the main corridor. I crept along with a modicum of anxiety; I had never quite become accustomed to seeing the gauzy forms of those otherworldly spirits that populated Hogwarts. Though for the most part they were of a friendly nature, their sudden materialization through nearby walls or the fleeting glimpse of their translucent bodies gliding across open doorways nearly always gave me an instinctual chill. They had a very annoying way of appearing when one least expected them - particularly when one was on a clandestine mission. I kept this in my mind as I continued toward the main corridor, stopping only if I heard a stray noise echo from the belly of the castle. The paintings on the walls revealed their subjects to be in nighttime slumber, with an occasional yawn or abrupt snore erupting from them to ensure that my nerves remained frayed.

The moon then broke free from the clouds for a fleeting moment; its pale beams penetrated the windows and bathed the way with light. I strode forward through the outer corridor and toward the staircase, taking advantage of the temporary brightness to further my steps. If the moon would only remain unmasked for a time, I thought, I could make the journey across the castle with haste, and be back in my rooms within the hour. The fact that I was currently traveling down a corridor several floors directly above the Slytherin dormitories did not escape me; if anything, it served to urge me forward at greater speed. I had no desire to come across anyone belonging to that house, least of all the Bloody Baron, whom upon colliding with once before, caused me to have the most disturbing of dreams for no less than two weeks.

As I placed a foot on the topmost stair I noticed a faint glow from their base, and by its light I saw a dark form swirl around a corner and into the corridor from which I had just come. Paralyzed, and realizing that I was quite exposed in my current position, I frantically sought to decide on either stepping back into the darkened corridor and pressing myself into shadow, or risk what would doubtless be a thundering scamper down the remaining stairs to the floor below, thus resigning my hope for an unnoticed excursion.

The figure slowly advanced toward the area in which I stood, its robes floating and enveloping its path like a terrible cloud of raven wings. A flash of lightning illuminated the corridor, and then it was once again plunged into darkness. 

Those few seconds of indecision were my undoing. I knew immediately to whom that shadowy form belonged, and I cursed my luck as I vainly attempted to remain motionless in the hopes that I would be passed by, unobserved. Upon glimpsing me in the arched opening, however, I saw the form stop, then stride forward purposefully. A tremor shot through me. I turned my cloaked head so that my face was concealed, and called upon what little strength remained within me. The moon once again lay hidden beneath a cloud.

"It's rather late for a student to be out of bed, wouldn't you agree?" came the low, dangerous voice I knew so well. Its tone sent unseen vibrations through the very matter surrounding us; my bones reverberated in its wake; my skin burned. 

He was mere feet from me, and I said nothing and kept my face averted - but my body was all too aware of his presence; an ache unlike anything I had previously known bloomed like a raging flower within me. My breath became increasingly labored.

He sensed this subtle transformation quietly, and to me his silence was more torturous than the honeyed velvet of his voice. He electrified the entire atmosphere with aspects of himself, both evident and covert: passion, sadness, fury, wariness, dominance, cruelty. He stood patiently, awaiting my answer.

"I am not one of your students, Professor," I replied at last. 

I turned to him then, and his eyes narrowed as he recognized my features. If he was in any way surprised, he successfully disguised it. He kept his chin high and threw a look down at me through his lashes and over his cheekbones.

"Miss Knight," he drawled, allowing the words to encircle me, seduce me. "Whatever would make you walk through the hallways of the school in the middle of the night, I wonder? His eyebrow lifted at his remark, and he cast a withering look at me before sweeping his gaze over my clothes disdainfully. "Perhaps another one of your . . . _trysts_? My, no wonder your work has suffered so; you surely can't be getting more than a few hours' rest each night at the pace at which you . . . operate." His lip curled slightly in visible disgust.

I swiftly turned away from him. This was not what I had intended, not how I had wanted it to end. I took a step down toward the lower floor, determined to escape him, to elude my own downfall. In my mind I was convinced that I could still carry out my plan to speak with Penelope, still be on a train for London in the morning, still _live_, somehow, without another word between us.

His hand grasped my arm, and cold dread shot through me as I was pulled back into the corridor and forcefully pushed against the stone wall. He leaned forward, his face dark and hidden. Only his scent - that scent of ancient spices and organic things - and the caress of his hair on my face as it fell forward and wafted gently with his breath, only those things made him immediately identifiable. The corridor was blanketed in a blackness darker than the depths of the grave, and I could not help but submit to the power of it all. My senses were in turmoil.

"Perhaps," he breathed slowly, threateningly, "you did not hear what I said."

"I heard you perfectly well," I replied icily. I did not face him.

"Then defend yourself. Deny it!" his hands shook me a bit at these words, his anger a tangible thing. His long fingers reached up and grasped me by the jaw, forcing me to turn to him. "Your science has no room for the impossible, yet you dally like a child with things beyond your understanding. People your science says cannot exist." his breath fell upon me; his other hand had found my hair and wrapped its length around his fist, pulling me forward roughly. "_Men_ your science says cannot exist. Or perhaps that is what you were searching for all of this time? Perhaps your . . . experimentation was of a completely different nature than what I was led to believe." 

"How _dare_ you," I hissed. An unwanted fire sprung up within me as I was pressed closer to him, and my cheeks flamed. "_You_ are beyond my understanding. You speak of things of which you imagine only in your own mind."

"Indeed?" 

His soft locks brushed against my lips; I felt the buttons of his coat cut cruelly into my chest as I sought to liberate myself from his hold, to stir myself from the enchantment he wove all about my person. 

My hair was then pulled sharply back, and I could not help but gasp.

"I think, Miss Knight, you have little idea of that which you have awoken. You think this place a storybook setting? You think it quite a whimsical diversion to the world you know?" His words were entrancing, melodic. "You are exceedingly foolish."

"Release me," I panted. "I have never had such thoughts where Hogwarts was concerned! If I was diverted by anything, it was the belief that you cared for me! I thought you knew me better, Severus."

The use of his name seemed to still him, but he did not release his grasp. White light blazoned through the corridor again, and I caught a glimpse of parted lips and merciless black orbs. 

I was lost. I expelled my breath silently and slumped in his grasp. I no longer cared what became of me; I simply wanted everything to end, to cease. I wondered if he loathed me enough to drop his fingers around my throat and squeeze it until I breathed no more - I had been longing for such a thing as of late - to at last rest my body and mind in a state where there existed only absolutes.

He stood unmoving for a time, silent. Eventually I felt his fingers leave my hair and face and press firmly into my shoulders. He pushed me away from him, but did not free me.

The faint orange glow was now climbing up the staircase; someone was approaching. The diffused light slowly exposed Severus's features to me; his brows were drawn together, and his fathomless eyes pierced me with a look both disconcerted and severe. His narrowed glance then moved past me and to the advancing figure. His hands dropped and he stepped away, and a cold chasm again opened up between us. He lifted his chin and his gaze took on a bored expression as the light bearer reached the head of the stairs.

"Minerva," he greeted her.

"Oh, Severus, here you are at last. I have . . . oh . . . good evening, Miss Knight."

She was momentarily struck silent as she surveyed the odd scene. Her robe was tied at the waist, and a pointed sleeping cap sat slightly askew on her head. In her hand she held a small candleholder. She pressed her lips together and cleared her throat.

"I am so sorry for interrupting," she continued, "but Albus has called a meeting in his office. Some of the staff are to go right away. I am afraid we have lost some time while searching for you, Severus . . . ." She stopped and eyed me solicitously. "But the matter, I assure you, is of great importance. Miss Knight, I think perhaps you should come, too."

She beckoned me in front of her with a hand, and I yielded with sinking spirits. My hopes of quietly disappearing the following morning now seemed beyond possibility. I resigned myself to hearing what it was the headmaster had to say before reconsidering my situation. While it was true that I was not forced to remain at Hogwarts, I had hoped to avoid any likely confrontations. I could yet leave, but in a small way I felt that my strategy had been diseased by my meeting with Severus.

When we at last arrived in Dumbledore's office, the room was awash with light from glowing oil lamps, and a small group of people were seated in chairs placed haphazardly around the upper landing. The large wooden desk belonging to the headmaster and many of his armillary spheres had been pushed aside to accompany the group. Upon our entrance all faces turned toward us, and I was vastly grateful for having kept my day clothes on; nearly everyone seemed in a state of sleepy disarray.

Dumbledore was seated behind his great desk, and his eyes twinkled as he looked at us over his spectacles.

"Ah, Severus, Davina, I'm glad you could be found. Please, come in, come in! Have a seat. I am quite happy you were able to accompany my request so late in the evening. I hope it has not inconvenienced you in any way?"

"No, not at all, sir," I replied, keeping the irony in my voice to a minimum. I found an unoccupied wooden chair in front of a curved bookcase and sat down.

Severus did not reply, but leaned against a nearby stairway rail with crossed arms and a stony expression on his face.

"Well, let me once again thank you all for coming," Dumbledore said as he peered out over his half-moon spectacles at the gathered faces. "I would not disturb your rest were it not very important."

I recognized several of the people seated: Professor Flitwick, Cornelius Fudge, Hagrid. Some people I had not seen before. Lupin, I noted, was not in attendance. 

Hagrid gave me a wink. I flinched, knowing that Severus had most likely caught it, and was no doubt adding the innocent greeting to the list of indiscretions he thought me guilty of. 

"As you are aware," said Dumbledore, "the number of incidents occurring at Hogwarts has grown considerably in the past few weeks. I fear that Voldemort is once again at work, but with greater resolve. Harry Potter has informed me of some unusual events he has either witnessed or been informed of that I feel necessitate action on my part. I have spoken with Cornelius, and we have agreed that, with the help of those in this room, we may be able to avert a most certain tragedy." 

Severus gave a derisive snort.

"Surely, Headmaster, you aren't basing a course of action on the whimsies of a boy."

"May I remind you, Severus," Dumbledore replied with genuine patience, "that our Mr. Potter is the one soul who has thwarted Voldemort on previous occasions. Without his 'whimsies', as you call them, Voldemort would no doubt be a far greater foe than we could possibly contend with."

"You mentioned he was 'informed' by others of certain. . .occurrences, Headmaster," Severus said with growing ire. "Who, exactly, are these informants, may I ask?"

"You may, Severus," said Dumbledore calmly, "but I think you will not like the answer."

"Black," spat Severus. His face was thunderous.

"Precisely so," agreed Dumbledore. "But I assure you, Severus, that I believe Sirius to be a viable ally, although Cornelius sides with you in the matter."

I glanced at Fudge, who looked extremely vexed. It was known that Sirius Black had been found guilty of heinous crimes many years earlier, but that certain happenings since his escape from Azkaban had thrown his guilt into question. A growing number of supporters were calling for Black's exoneration, but Black remained in hiding, as the Ministry of Magic still had not lifted the official search for him. Dumbledore had discarded the Ministry's requests for information leading to Black, and had instead allowed Black to correspond with Harry Potter, believing Black to be an indispensable tool in the fight against Lord Voldemort. Fudge could not help but allow it, though he "officially" knew nothing of Black's actions. Dumbledore, I had learned since arriving at Hogwarts, had amazing powers of influence.

"Time is of the essence," Dumbledore went on, "as we believe Voldemort to be in the final stages of reinstating his ascendency to those who are loyal to him. I shall be discussing what is to be done with each of you independently, as it is oftentimes easier to focus on a single goal than it is to interpret a larger, broader purpose."

His sparkling eyes swept the room, then fell on me. He seemed to have sensed my discomfort with the topic at hand, as I had sunk even further into my cloak in an attempt to find an escape to normalcy. It took all of my will to not place my palms over my ears and beg to be awoken from what my mind viewed as a fantastical dream.

"I believe you may also be of some help to us, Miss Knight. I would like to meet with you in the morning to discuss how your work may benefit our cause."

"Of . . . of course," I stammered. "I would be honored to be of service."

"Good, good," Dumbledore smiled kindly. _You have yet to discover your purpose,_ his eyes said, _but it will be discovered. Do not fear. All is as it should be in the universe._ _All is as it should be._

A sense of calm spread over me, and though I told myself that it was all quite irrational, I allowed myself to relax for the first time in many days.

"Now," the headmaster said as he cast his gaze out at the others, "I would like you all to return to your beds and try to sleep peacefully tonight. The storm has left, and I believe it will be a rather beautiful day tomorrow. Please, take an banana taffy on your way out," he said as he waved a hand toward a small golden bowl atop his desk. "I find they produce the most wonderful dreams."

I eyed the bowl suspiciously and cursed the fact that I had not had one in my possession before running into the Bloody Baron.

"I will speak to all of you tomorrow morning," he continued as the others began to yawn and make their way toward the moving staircase. "We have much to do. And may I remind you to please be cautious; secrecy is of the upmost importance. Severus, I would like you to stay for a moment, if you would. Cornelius and I must speak with you immediately."

"Certainly, Headmaster," came the low response.

As I stepped onto the staircase with Minerva, I caught a brief glance of Severus standing next to Dumbledore's desk, arms crossed, listening intently to what was being said. Without warning, his black eyes snapped up and penetrated me with a look of intense hunger; the great wing of the griffin slid past and then I could see no more.

I felt myself tremble, and Minerva put her hand on my arm. 

"Miss Knight, are you quite all right?" a worried expression crossed her features as we stepped out into the lower hallway.

"Yes, yes," I assured her gratefully. "I have just been unable to sleep for several nights. I promise, it is nothing."

"Well," she said, "I can certainly understand if you are uneasy with what you have just heard, with the turn things have taken. I doubt very much you had anticipated any of this when you first arrived at Hogwarts." 

She squeezed my arm gently, kindly.

"No." My voice sounded lost. "No, I could never have known." 


	3. Vervain

Chapter Three: _Vervain_

  
  
  
  


Gods.

They still lived in the ether of some places. Adored, cursed, appeased, feared; they crept the heavens and bestowed their wisdom, their justice, their black wrath. Sacrifices were made for their placation; incantations were sung for their interference; myths were created in their honor. Upon the map of the gods mortals could only contemplate an existence of endless uncertainty and an afterlife founded on calibrated compliance. When my thoughts led me to such beings, I found there existed in my mind's eye only semblances of ideas, visual representations: veined stone, depthless seas, the sun's golden rays, metals corroded a gentle green, serpentine beauty.

Science bares no illusions. It is a far more impartial god; it asks only for proof. With that one offering, the truth can be had. And I knew that all truth, discovered or not, resided in that vaporous, unseen body. 

It was, perhaps, what I had witnessed in the nursery that set me on a path far different than that of my parents. At least that is what I told myself. A more clever mind would have seen that it was, simply, the only option left open to me as a person displaying none of those abilities which my parents possessed.

Prior to that night of revelation, the study of physics, while interesting to me, was nothing for which I had shown a great proclivity in my youth. After my parents' disclosure, however, I voraciously read all attainable material on the subject. Quantum physics in particular had the most appeal for me. That branch of study came closest to putting a reasonable face on what I considered simply as an unexplained phenomenon. Although my outward behavior did not change toward my family, my mind was in a constant state of flux. I accepted their claims superficially, but inwardly I was making notes, comparing theories, and mapping future trials. I whole-heartedly believed their abilities to be the product of an untapped scientific principle rather than any form of divine truth. Within a tortoise's lifetime we had ascertained that we were but a mote in the celestial dust; we had charted the mind's landscape and could decode virtually every natural occurrence known to man. Zeus no longer hurled thunderbolts from on high. Reason had come of age. So too did I believe those powers exhibited by my family would soon be exposed in their natural state. The darkness from whence those mysteries emerged would have the light of truth reflected upon it; it was a matter of time and calculation. All things eventually came to that end.

For more than ten years I had analyzed and observed. I had narrowed my field of study to a handful of theories, not least of which were the superstring theories, and I sought to define magic through those elusive bodies of thought. 

The trouble, of course, was that the Ministry of Magic absolutely forbade me to document the use of any magical tools whatsoever in the name of science, as they did not want any unlooked-for attention. They demanded that any experiments involving magical items be limited to their jurisdiction, meaning that I had to perform them in a magical environment rather than the sterile rooms of the university. I was also required to make critical calculations without naming the contributing element, be it wand, word, or weed. This drove me absolutely mad. As I was dealing strictly with theories, my work essentially amounted to, at the end of the day, nothing more than a pile of notebooks shot through with obtuse equations. They looked for all the world like the scribblings of a lunatic extra-terrestrial. I would often mull over the possibility of actually being driven senseless while looking at them; like clouds, they took on shifting forms upon the page – a rabbit jumping a hedge, a dragon breathing lead-lined fire. Eventually they would settle and again become diagrams and variables. I occasionally drank absinthe while I studied them. It enabled translation.

At Octavia's recommendation, I had petitioned Dumbledore ruthlessly to relocate my work from the antiseptic university to those ancient towers of Hogwarts. I had not thought it a very promising solicitation, but, whether due in part to Octavia's influence at the school or Dumbledore's own curiosity, I was able to apply at the university for a sabbatical and, notebooks and equipment tucked beneath my arm, look with my own incredulous eyes upon the great walls of that fascinating edifice.

I had been scheduled to arrive precisely one week after the students had been liberated for the summer holiday – both Dumbledore and I believed it to be the best possible time to conduct my work, as it was potentially free from both interruption and curious eyes. Most of the staff had also gone for the holiday, leaving the grounds eerily vacant and noiseless. I stood at the great doors in the muted light of a cloudy afternoon and gazed up at the standards drifting sleepily in the wind.

"Well, let's get inside. A storm is coming." Octavia's voice stirred me, and I bent to lay hold of my suitcase. I gave the banners a final glimpse before following her form into the darkened entrance hall.

A great open room lay before me; doors on either side sat like small impurities on the high stone walls, and a massive staircase led up to a formal landing above. The nucleus of the room was made manifest in a colossal stained glass window set into the wall above the entrance doors. Though the light inside the hall was soft and smudged, the colors born of that window hung like formless, resonating jewels upon the dull veil of its space, and Octavia, adorned in amethyst, turned to smile at me.

"Welcome," she grinned. "Are you prepared for some enlightenment? You're about to see things you won't see in your London, you know."

I grunted in skeptical acknowledgment and eyed the opposing openings situated at the staircase's apex. Octavia's voluminous skirts and train slid like liquid pitch up the wide steps, and I followed upon her heels apprehensively. 

"I hope you don't mind being situated up a ways. Dumbledore thought it best to have you close to the rest of us at first. If you choose to move elsewhere at a later time, that would be fine. You may find the trek up and down the stairs a bit of a chore." She opened a door to the right and beckoned me through.

I was about to make a wry comment about my physical competence when the words died in my throat. Above me, stairwells criss-crossed my vision in an unceasing pattern into the next life. I looked on, slack-jawed, as they shifted and groaned like beasts of burden to meet their task, altering their positions to accompany any wayfarers on their paths.

"Enchanted," Octavia stated simply. "There are no levers or pulleys, no yoked oxen making large circles in the dust." A poorly hidden smirk pulled at her lips.

She knew me too well, I thought.

I shot an uncertain glance upward as I climbed behind her, making silent notes to myself to be especially cautious after partaking in any drink - - and I would, I thought - - lest I inadvertently throw myself from their heights. A definite hazzard, I mused.

The stairwells murmured.

As we ascended, a movement to my left caused me to turn my head and glimpse briefly at one of the countless framed paintings hung above the stone handrails. A powder-wigged gentleman gazed back at me, smiling benevolently. I noted the fine velvet frockcoat he wore, and was marvelling at its authentic texture when his lips pulled back, revealing irregular teeth, and his left eye closed in a jaunty wink.

I stumbled on the next step and shamefully fell face-forward onto my suitcase. Notebooks scattered.

A chorus of gasps and quiet chuckles erupted throughout the immense room.

"Oh! Sorry!" came an elegantly clipped reply.

Octavia retreated down the steps and began gathering up my belongings.

"Don't mind _him_," she muttered as she stacked the notebooks efficiently. "He's an insufferable flirt." She reached out a ringed hand and helped me to rise, then pressed the stack of notebooks into my chest and propelled me forward once again up the steps. "Don't get too wrapped up in the paintings just yet," she said. "You'll be sorry once you start. They just _love_ to prattle on."

I nodded dumbly and continued to mount the stairs. Stairs upon stairs. 

An obliging stairwell deposited us at last upon a small landing. I followed Octavia through an arched opening and down a cavernous corridor before coming to a stop at a deceptively small wooden door on the left. Octavia pulled an elaborate silver key from her pocket and placed it within the lock. The door swung open to reveal a firelit room, and I inched my way in cautiously.

A large four-poster bed sat in the middle of the space, though it was dwarfed by the sweeping walls and ceiling in which it was contained. Tapestries hung about the place; I was rather relieved to see that no paintings adorned the walls, as I did not particularly wish to share my private quarters with other personalities. Octavia swept by me and opened several connecting doors with the selfsame silver key. "Here is the washroom," she indicated, "and over here is a room for your work. There are other rooms as well, and you may use them as you see fit."

I surveyed the adjoining rooms with interest and admiration; they were all of them more than adequate for my needs, and I was secretly pleased with the luxuriousness of the place. Shades of gray and orange fought for dominance in the main bedroom as the fire drove away the invading chill of the oncoming storm. I smiled and lay my suitcase on a nearby desk.

"Will it do?" smiled Octavia as she dropped the key into my palm.

"Oh yes. I think it's absolutely charming," I replied in earnest as I traced the ornate patterns on the key with my thumb.

"Good. There is an anti-spell lock on the door, so you will need the key to enter. I don't think there are any other entrances to this suite, but I can't be certain. There are loads of secret passageways throughout Hogwarts, you know. And there _is_ the fireplace . . ." I must have looked slightly bewildered at this declaration, because Octavia smiled warmly and waved it away with a hand. "But we'll talk about that later. No doubt you'll be chewing my ear off with questions as soon as you get your bearings. I'll leave you to unpack and get situated. They serve tea in the Great Hall in two hours, for those who are still on the grounds. Shall I come back up for you then?"

"Oh yes, please," I said. "You know I couldn't find my way back down to save my life."

"You'll get the hang of it soon enough," she grinned. "Oh! Before I forget, there's a wardrobe just there that has been prepared for you," she indicated a substantial mahogany cabinet placed near the bed. "You might feel a bit more comfortable dressed like the natives, if you know what I mean."

She gave me a quick embrace and turned to exit the room. "Right. Two hours, then."

The door closed securely, and the swishing sound of her taffeta skirts eventually faded into silence.

I turned now and studied my surroundings thoroughly. Stone tracery decorated the window glass and ceilings, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that a portion of the room housed an Oriel window that looked out upon a large portion of the grounds. Immense black clouds were approaching like shape-shifting giants across the land, and I noted that the room was growing darker by the moment. I looked in vain for a matchbox to light the numerous candles placed about the room and instead settled for lighting a single one from the flames in the fireplace and sparking its brothers from its solitary source.

As I lit one candle in particular, my eye caught a small Gothic revival wooden cabinet tucked passively in one of the darkening corners of the room. I approached it with curiosity and, wrapping my fingers around the ornate handles, pulled it open to reveal rows of crystal glasses of varying sizes lining the inside of the cabinet doors. Further in, the candlelight illuminated bottles of every sort of spirit imaginable, and I blessed Octavia silently as I grasped a rounded bottle of brandy by its neck and pulled it from its shelter. I chose an unadorned balloon glass and warmed it gently in my hands before pouring the aromatic amber liquid into its hollow. I brought it to my mouth and closed my eyes in delicious surrender as the brandy passed my lips and coursed through my limbs, warming the very center of my chest and defrosting that part of my mind I typically reserved for abstract thoughts.

After several minutes of remaining still and allowing the brandy to have its way, I walked to the wardrobe cabinet and warily perused its contents. Velvets seemed the order of the day, and silks a close second. I ran my palms and fingers over the delicious fabrics, brought them up to my face, caressed my cheeks, kissed their folds. I had always been a slave to the senses, and the atmosphere in which I currently found myself was a powerful master indeed. I sighed contentedly. 

I at last pulled a sapphire-blue empire dress from the wardrobe and held it up for inspection in one of the wardrobe door's mirrors. I looked back at a glassy-eyed woman already affected by the brandy's siren song. She was petite; a good foot shorter than the stately Octavia. Her pale olive skin was devoid of any colour; her dark almond eyes were dull and narrowed, leaving on her features a seemingly constant state of perplexity and concern. Eyebrows arched and slashed like Chinese calligraphy. Her lower lip was a good deal fuller than her upper lip and had been reddened by the robust liquor, stamping a picture of childlike pouting in the glass reflection. Too small; a doll's mouth. The cheekbones were far too sharp and the neck far too long. Her hair was pulled back into a perfunctory ponytail; her clothes sat like bulky padding on her slight form. Even the brandy's warm enchantment could not disguise the plainness of her appearance. A truly unmoving image, I thought.

I sighed and lay the dress across the bed before returning to the small Victorian cabinet for a second glass of the delectable brandy. I convinced myself that it was necessary for the upcoming meeting with the castle's other residents; I was cripplingly shy and had found that such mood enhancers helped to focus my thoughts and nerves. Tonight in particular might prove extremely difficult for me, I knew, for Octavia had told me that not a few of the teaching staff thought my work ridiculous and a pure waste of time. I did not expect to win their hearts, but, if nothing else, I wanted to win their grudging respect. I swallowed the last of the brandy.

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


As I followed Octavia into the Great Hall I tugged uncomfortably at the empire dress's low neckline.

"I feel like a fruit vendor in this dress," I complained. When Octavia turned and lifted her eyebrows questionably at me, I pointed meaningfully at my bosom. "This can't possibly be considered appropriate," I grumbled. 

"Phsht. You look wonderful. A great improvement over those jumpers you wear."

"What's wrong with my jumpers?" I demanded, but was silenced with a wave of Octavia's hand as we approached a long table placed perpendicularly to the rest of the vast room. A handful of people sat in discussion with one another and I felt several eyes raise as Octavia greeted a tall, wizened man with an impressively long beard.

"Headmaster, may I introduce Davina Knight?" I looked back at the man and knew him to be Dumbledore. His eyes were kind and his mouth gentle. I relaxed slightly.

He stood. "Ah yes, Miss Knight. We have been waiting for you. I hope you have found your accommodations satisfactory?"

"Quite." I now felt the attention of everyone in the room upon me and fought to keep my voice steady. "May I thank you for allowing me the opportunity to come to Hogwarts, Professor," I stammered. "I can't tell you what it means to me."

"Yes, well, I must admit a small fascination with what you are attempting to achieve," he smiled, "and I know your parents well. I believe Penelope will be starting at Hogwarts in the fall?"

"She will, yes. She is very excited about it." 

"Good, good. Well don't let me keep you standing here like a specimen on display. Please, have a seat." He indicated two vacant chairs to his left, and I thankfully followed Octavia around the long table and into the safety of one of the aforementioned chairs. It was the first time I suspected that Dumbledore knew the internal workings of those around him; I was to find out only later that that was indeed the case.

As I took my seat, I noticed that to my right sat a man in a somewhat thread-worn robe. He turned to me and I saw that he had a rather dashing smile, though it was shadowed by an obvious sadness that covered him like an intangible shroud. He looked haunted. I took him to be my own age though I detected some premature gray at his temples. He stuck out a hand invitingly.

"Lupin," he smiled warmly, "Remus Lupin. I'll be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher in the fall."

"I'm pleased to meet you," I replied as I shook his hand. "Are you here for the entire summer?" It still made little sense to me as to why some teachers preferred to stay at Hogwarts over the summer; were it me, I wouldn't be able to get on my holiday fast enough.

"I'm just here for a week or two to meet with the headmaster, then I'll be away until the beginning of term."

"I see . . ." I was about to question him about what his post as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher entailed when I noticed his form stiffen almost unperceptively. Though his eyes never left mine, I could almost see one of his ears shift to catch the sound of footsteps approaching the Great Hall. Despite myself, I turned my head to view the form that now entered. 

A man was walking purposefully across the span of the room toward the large table, black robes billowing behind him with all the rage and majesty of those flames born of Hades. His jet hair swept gently away from his features with every stride, and it seemed to me as though his form took on the quality of a vacuum, pulling toward it the bright glow of the torchlight and all substance surrounding it – his presence was unbelievably overpowering. There was an air of casual elegance about him, and both his expression and movements gave the impression of strength and cruelty. He greeted no one nor made any gestures. I found that I could not turn my eyes from him as he approached and took a seat on the opposite side of the table from were Octavia and I were seated. It was a heady enchantment he wove. I started slightly at that internal statement: Hogwarts seemed to be slowly bleeding into that gray matter reserved for logic. _He is but a man,_ I told myself firmly, _a man just like any other._

Much to my embarrassment, Remus shifted uncomfortably and I was aware that I had forgotten we were in conversation together. When my eyes again returned to his I was too flustered to voice an apology. His smile was at the same time benevolent and sorrowful.

"Severus Snape. Master of Potions at Hogwarts," he stated matter-of-factly. "You are not the first to wear that expression you now have on your face, nor do I think you will be the last." His eyes searched mine in contemplation for a time, as though he wished to say something further, but then an invisible shade was drawn over them and he turned abruptly from me. When he spoke again it was good-naturedly and free of all meaning: "I am rather famished. It shouldn't be too long now."

I watched the Great Hall doors expectantly for signs of platters and goblets being carried in, and so was all the more shocked when food simply bloomed into existence on the plate in front of me. An elaborately carved glass appeared out of thin air to my right and filled itself with wine. Baskets brimming with bread and fruit unfurled themselves at specific points along the table.

I must have sat for some time in churning deliberation, because Remus playfully tapped my wine glass with his in an attempt to rouse me from my thoughts.

"Here's to your hopeful success," he smiled warmly, "and may the light of reason steer you clear of those rocks upon which many a ship has been driven."

As I brought the glass to my lips, I fleetingly pondered his words; I knew there was a message within them, but I was not altogether certain to what they were referring. I decided to revisit them at a later time. The wine slid deliciously down my throat, banishing all vestiges of unease, and I began to enjoy myself in earnest; both the wine and Remus's company served to pull a curtain of forgetfulness about that dark figure that had so consumed my thoughts just moments before.

It was not until I was satiated and admittedly tipsy that I felt it for the first time. A subtle vibration in my chair, through the table and floors. A silent humming that carried like a gentle song through my muscles and limbs. At first I looked about, curious as to its source. Then I realized it was a voice. A voice so deep and melodic that it could barely be heard beneath the brash sounds of clinking tableware and those higher-pitched voices around me. Within my depths a warmth was spreading, an exquisite tingle that ran through me and ended in a beaded chill upon my skin. I leaned forward ever so slightly and glanced down to the other end of the table.

The potions master, who had been in the midst of a conversation, stopped speaking and returned my gaze. The vibrations immediately ceased. His look was not one of interest or acknowledgement, but rather of dull annoyance and irritation. The woman to whom he had been speaking turned and followed his gaze to me, and she too looked on me with sour displeasure. Her eyes then fell to my exposed décolletage and her lips pursed tightly in obvious distaste. The potion master's eyebrow raised itself momentarily in invitation. _Yes? Well?_ he seemed to communicate. His features then fell into blatant indifference and he once again took up his former conversation.

I reclined back into my chair, shaking slightly. I could not understand how or why this man unnerved me so. I found it actually angered me. Although my shyness was great, I was never one to consciously back away from a challenge or allow an injustice to pass. I swallowed the last of my wine and reached out for Octavia's hand.

"I am afraid I am exhausted from travelling after all. The food has made me quite sleepy. I think I will return to my rooms, if that is all right."

"Of course. No doubt you are quite overwhelmed with it all. Shall I see you again tomorrow morning for breakfast? I can then give you a proper tour." Octavia's eyes sparkled at me through her spectacles and I felt warmed once again.

"That would be wonderful," I conceded. 

"Shall I walk with you back up to your rooms?" she asked.

"Please, allow me to walk her back up, Octavia," interrupted Remus as he stood up from his chair. "The Avatar suite. Seventh floor, correct? I promise to be on my best behaviour. No biting or the like."

Octavia gave a quick snort. "Yes, well, I'll hold you to that." She gave a knowing glance at Remus and then turned and looked at me kindly. "Sleep well. I shall see you tomorrow morning." Her hand grasped mine and squeezed it in assurance.

Remus smiled at me and held his arm out chivalrously. I smiled in flustered embarrassment, fuelled by the wine, and placed my palm upon his forearm awkwardly. I was not used to such things.

As we left the Great Hall, I turned to give Octavia a final nod and found my eyes drawn to that spot where Severus Snape's dark presence lingered still. He was yet in conversation, and his eyes moved not at all in acknowledgement of my departure.

I turned and allowed Remus to lead me up to my rooms.

I surprised myself in keeping my voice light and free-spirited throughout our conversation, though I felt anything but. I found Remus to be a wise and gentle man, and I warmed considerably toward his friendly nature. He spoke at times in cryptic riddles, but he was never pretentious in his musings. 

When at last he left me standing at my door, I allowed my smile to fall only when I was certain he had turned the corner down the corridor. I quickly let myself into my rooms and locked the door steadfastly. I walked to my suitcase and, opening it, lifted from it a narrow bottle of green liquid. I swiftly found the accompanying glass and spoon, then looked about me for a tea setting. A small arrangement had been placed on a nearby bureau, and within a small porcelain container I managed to find a couple of small sugar cubes. I placed the cubes upon the ventilated filigree of the spoon's surface and poured the venomous green liquid over the mixture of metallic beauty and sweetness, watching the cloudy drops gather in the glass beneath. I slowly unfastened the odious dress as the absinthe drained luxuriously, swirling like a serpent in the recesses of its glass cave. I exchanged the dress for a light shift of black silk and, removing the spoon from its place, sank with the glass into a large chair in front of the ornate fireplace. 

As I swallowed the bitter fluid, a flash of lightning shot through the room and cast ghoulish shadows across its walls. I looked into the flames and willed the wormwood to course through me, to relieve me of my anxiety and approaching sadness. A form of a doubt began to shape itself in my mind. Perhaps I had made a mistake by coming to Hogwarts. Perhaps I had fallen deeper than I could possibly climb back up. Perhaps . . .

I shook the despairing thoughts from my mind and reached for one of the notebooks stacked on a nearby table. As I looked at the uniform equations and rigid numbers upon the pages, a peace grew within my breast; I was reminded of the real reason I had come to Hogwarts. I had a discovery to make, and I would not –_ could not_ – let myself be swayed with fanciful imaginings. 

The absinthe at last took hold and I watched the storm play out upon the walls in hazy wonder.

  


That night I dreamt of ebony satin and soft snow, of bottomless black pools that beckoned me into their stillness and pulled me down into their cold depths. I woke, perspiring and shaking, and thought I had dreamt of death.


	4. Nightshade

Chapter Four: _Nightshade_

  
  
  
  


It was with an excruciating headache that I awoke the following morning. I had slept poorly, and found that those disquieting dreams that had been my bedfellows yet lingered in my mind's eye. I took them at first to be the products of the absinthe, but upon further meditation decided that they were in fact coping mechanisms. After all, I thought dryly, here I am in a world not to be believed by any conventional thought; I have done well to not have become completely unhinged.

The damp smell of rain could still be detected, but a bright and golden light fell through the windowpanes, casting geometric designs upon the floor of the room and causing me to throw a hand to my face in an effort to block the rays from my burning eyelids. Birdsong echoed vibrantly throughout both the Hogwarts grounds and my chambers, and with a groan I turned my face to the pillow and strove to bury myself deeper into the bed's downy softness. 

As though my misery were not yet complete, a loud knock at the door induced exploding stars behind my eyelids and, gripping the pillow, I wrapped it around my head in a futile attempt to deliver myself anywhere out of the world.

The knocking continued for several moments, as did my attempts at escaping it.

At last, Octavia's voice: "Do you know, _I_ am the one who put the anti-spell lock on this door. I can just as easily remove it."

I thought to let her try to do just that, as it may buy me a few extra minutes of uninterrupted peace, then surmised that the act of spell removal might actually make more of a clamourous disruption than her blasted knocking.

At that conclusion I rolled off of the bed and onto my feet, then made a somewhat crooked path to the door. Upon opening it, Octavia's eyes widened behind her spectacles as she took me in.

"Not a word," I warned her as I stepped aside and allowed her into the suite. I closed the door firmly and turned to glare at her.

She stopped in the center of the room, lips twitching, and I knew she was struggling not to laugh out loud at me. 

My eyes narrowed.

She then put a hand into one of her skirt pockets and pulled out a small purple vial. She silently held it out to me.

After a minute, I took the vial and uncorked it. I slowly brought it to my nose and sniffed it suspiciously.

"I took the opportunity to stop by Severus's office this morning and have him make that up for you," she said. "I thought you might be in need of some . . . relief."

I felt my face flush with embarrassment, both at the memory of the potion master's cold indifference the night before, and the fact that he was apparently aware I was suffering from obvious overindulgence. Octavia could not have known my feelings toward the man; she had procured the vial with the best of intentions. I held it up in a mock toast.

"Well, here's to the potions master. Let's see how gifted he truly is, shall we?" With that, I brought the vial to my lips and threw my head back along with its contents.

The foulest taste I had ever known filled my mouth and nasal passages, causing my eyes to water and the bile to rise dangerously in my throat. For a single moment I thought: _He has created this revolting flavor on purpose! Was he the sort of man who would find it amusing were I to become violently sick? Perhaps it was even his idea of some terrible joke?_

Quite a parade of sentiments must have played out upon my features, because Octavia could hold her mirth in no longer and she guffawed openly and robustly. "Just give it a minute," she gasped. "It always tastes like absolute shit going down."

Her lapse from the rigid formality she had heretofore displayed nearly made me spit up the vile liquid in laughter – here was the girl I had met more than ten years ago in an open grassy field – my dearest friend. I kept my lips sealed and forced the potion down my throat, a bit more comforted in the knowledge that the odious flavor appeared to be a standard component. 

After no more than twenty seconds, a calming heat seemed to blossom in my stomach and work its way outward, immediately putting at ease all pain, nausea, and general discomfort – indeed, I felt better than I had in years. I looked up at Octavia in wonder, and she smiled brightly.

"That is absolutely amazing stuff, I'm embarrassed to admit. The potions master could make a fortune if he decided to market that," I said.

"Yes, well, the same could be said for a great many of the things brewed at Hogwarts," replied Octavia. "Now go on and have a bath and get dressed. The school is a big place; we'll be lucky if you see even a quarter of it today." 

Feeling in far better sprits, even blissful, I swung open the windows in the bathroom and inhaled the air deeply before walking to the footed tub and running the water.

Against Octavia's suggestion, I had picked from the wardrobe a high-necked black velvet gown with sweeping sleeves, and had decided to pull my hair up and back into a tight bun.

"Were I thinking you wanted to follow my suit in dress I would be highly flattered," she said flatly as we walked down the corridor together. "However, I think you are trying to accomplish something altogether different. Are you applying for a post as librarian, perhaps?"

"Actually, I am attempting to escape those disapproving looks I received last night," I replied imperiously. "I was made aware that my state of dress was . . . unsightly."

"Nonsense. If you mean any catty looks from Miss Dratch, I assure you they were merely due to jealousy. Psht, you sell yourself far too short sometimes, Davina."

"I appreciate your confidence. However, Miss Dratch - the blonde-haired woman seated to the right of Dumbledore, I assume? – was not the only one to give me reproachful looks."

"I will guess you mean Severus, then. I would not be overly consumed with his opinion if I were you. He has his own dark secrets, and it is far too dangerous to get close to him, much less worry yourself about his thoughts." 

"Well, I think of him as not so much a dangerous man as perhaps a man in need of solicitude, even . . ."

Octavia stopped and looked down upon me with concern. "Listen to me, Davina. I am your friend, and I would not see you hurt. Severus Snape has an undeniable magnetism, I admit. But I have seen others try to get close to him before, and it never ends well. The man has no heart, nor does he have within him any sense of kindness or light. He will be your ruin, if he allows you even that much. Do you hear me? He would destroy you; it is all he is capable of."

I almost smiled at her, thinking she was having a joke at my expense, but her face registered no levity. Upon this realization, I was slightly taken aback by the severity of her tone and shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze. "I shall take care where he is concerned, Octavia. But you say things that I cannot believe of anyone. Perhaps you have just misunderstood him."

Octavia took my arm and we resumed walking. "If I say terrible things, it is for your sake. Severus is a brilliant scholar, I am not hesitant to say. He is one of the most intelligent people I have ever met, and he knows his potions, among other things -- more so than anyone else in the wizarding world. I do not deny the man that. But _you_, you I _will _deny him, if I can help it." 

She looked weary and somehow older, and I could think of no reply to ease her mind.

Though her words had confused me, I patted her hand reassuringly.

  


We spent the greater part of the day touring the classrooms and greenhouses, and I met only a handful of the staff. They were pleasant enough to my face, but I found myself speculating on their true thoughts. I could not help but feel they were unsupportive of my work – _would I feel the same were I them?_ I wondered. Perhaps. The castle elves took some getting used to; though I had heard of them before, upon seeing them I immediately began hypothesizing that they were bred on some strange farm where genetic testing went unchecked and where they could be sold off for a generous fee. _Horrible_, I thought to myself. _There should be governmental regulations on that sort of thing_.

Eventually Octavia pulled a small watch from the chatelaine that hung at her waist and flipped open its case.

"Good. Let's have a look around the dungeons, shall we?"

"Dungeons? What could there be to see in the dungeons?" I wondered aloud. I thought of torture devices and dripping stone walls, of madmen locked in cells and rats scuttling along underfoot. I hung back nervously.

"Come on, there's plenty to see," Octavia urged. "Nothing to be worried about. You'll forget you're even in the dungeons soon enough."

I followed her apprehensively as we descended several flights of cold steps into the bowels of the castle. I was surprised to find that the dungeons, though still passable by that term's definition, were in fact cleaner and warmer than I had expected. If there were indeed any rats, they remained hidden.

We wound through several long and darkened corridors, opening doors here and there to investigate, before coming to a larger wooden door at the end of one of the vast underground halls. Octavia put her finger to her lips in a sign to remain silent, and placed her ear against the door. After several moments, she nodded at me, then pushed the door open. A room lay before us, illuminated by rays of afternoon sunlight that angled through the windows, and filled to the brim with books, dried herbs, bottles of every shape and size imaginable, desks, and, quite noticeably, cauldrons. I did not need to wonder as to whom governed this room – Severus Snape had his mark all over it. Newly curious, I stepped through the doorway and began to eye the various tubes, bottles, and liquids that were abundant everywhere. I then climbed up several steps and scanned the titles of the books set behind the potion master's desk.

"Quite fascinating, really. Who would have thought so much could be said about potions and the like?" I said as I pulled a large leather-bound book entitled _Leechdoms,_ _Wort Curing, and Starcraft of Early England_ from a large stack. I paged through it with interest, though immediately set it back on the pile when I came across various infusion recipes calling for crushed leeches. I cleared my throat and found myself looking down at Severus Snape's desk. It was very orderly. I reached out and picked up a feathered quill, then ran my hands over the silky instrument. 

"We should only stay for a moment," said Octavia as she reached for her watch. "Everyone will be meeting in the Great . . .oh!" 

I looked up, alarmed, to see Octavia holding the silver chain that connected to her watch. The watch was missing from its end.

"The crummy thing must have come off somewhere," she grumbled. 

"Would you like me to have a look for it?" I asked, concerned.

"No, no. I must have lost it coming down to the dungeons. I won't be a moment," she reassured me as she opened the door to the outer hallway. "Will you be all right by yourself?"

"Yes, I'll be fine. Are you sure you won't have me with you?"

"Nope. Give me a minute. Have a look around." And with that, she swept out of the room.

I waited for a few long seconds, then turned my attention once again to the desk. Curiosity drove me to place a hand on one of its drawer handles, but propriety stilled it. _What sort of man was he? And what sort of professor?_ _Would I find answers somewhere?_ My fingers curled about the handle.

The whispering of cloth caused me to turn suddenly, startled. A shadow bled forth from a darkened corner, slowly spreading and growing, and what emerged from it was the potions master himself.

I gasped and dropped my hand to my side.

"Have you found anything of interest?" said The Voice. Calm, dangerous.

Immediately I was struck with the inability to speak and, mortified and bewildered, I took a step backward. My way was blocked by the massive pile of books.

Sensing my inadequacy, his ominous shape descended upon me, and for the first time I knew his full effectuality as his eyes sought out mine.

I can now in retrospect only describe it as a glorious beam of light that shines upon one in a world made of darkness; when its attention is elsewhere, one feels suddenly lost and bereft, and does anything necessary to have that glory once again. 

So did I feel at that moment, bathed in his light. My back pressed against the ancient leather books; a moth pinned to the very parchment by his black and yawning gaze – and yet I felt divine and complete. He was a living seduction. He was all things. I hated that awareness, despised the illogicality of it. I hardened myself.

"I find it all very . . . curious," I replied slowly and in determination to rend his power over me. "As you say . . . of interest. I suppose."

He gave no reply save the elevation of his left brow.

I looked about awkwardly and made to step down, but he would not remove himself. Rather, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and his long white fingers fanned like pale feathers against his coat sleeves. His eyes were hooded and languid.

"Ah yes," he drawled. "Your pursuits are of a . . . higher intellectual sort."

"I would not say that."

"You would think it."

"I find it absolutely fascinating that you presume to know my thoughts given that we have never been introduced," I snapped. My temper once again had forsaken my attempts at delicacy.

His chin lifted slightly.

"So we have not. Tell me, Davina Knight, are you feeling better after my administrations?"

"I beg your pardon?" I choked. And then I remembered the potion I had swallowed that morning. I decided to remain silent on the matter. I was not about to give him more fodder with which to attack me. I too lifted my chin and stared at a spot over his right shoulder. To look into his eyes again would be my undoing.

His scent even then reached me; clean sandalwood and earth and spice. _Was I going mad?_ I fought to keep Octavia's warnings at the forefront of my thoughts. I straightened and attempted to casually lay a hand on the books behind me.

"I wonder if the potion helped at all. You seem slightly more . . . dour than last night."

Momentarily shocked and unable to think of a scathing retort, I instead gave him a withering look and strove to stare him down. He returned my glower composedly, the corner of his lips giving the slightest hint of a curl. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

And so we stood in challenged silence for the better part of a minute, his unswerving attention causing me to feel wintry and feverish all at once. The tension was unbearable. And yet I was beginning to understand that it was all to his plan; manipulation and control were indeed his lightless sovereigns. I could all but feel his loathing for me - it simmered just beneath his subdued exterior. Why did he dislike me so? And moreover, why was I in the least concerned?

At last he seemed to relax, and he leaned against a nearby railing indifferently. He eyed me with curiosity.

"I understand you study string theory. You hope to explain things using that theory." 

This was unexpected.

"I do," I replied simply.

"How do you reconcile the fact that string theory is incompatible with general relativity?" he asked.

I was taken aback. I was unaware that anyone of the magical persuasion was remotely familiar with quantum mechanics. Despite myself, I was secretly impressed.

"Well . . ." I began, "the second string revolution seeks to illuminate general theory rather than stand as a separate theory - -" 

"Several quantum theories are non-renormalizable. They do not discard infinities from physical-quantity calculations." 

I stared at him, hoping to keep my amazement disguised. "If one replaces one-dimensional extended strings as fundamental objects in the stead of point particles, it can be done."

"That has not been proven."

"It is completely possible," I countered.

"Space-time structure can not be defined by geometry with quantum-mechanical excitations." 

"Non-purturbative theories are proving that definition possible every day."

"But it has _not_ been proven." He was now eyeing me with renewed attention. I did not flatter myself to think there was respect in his gaze.

Nonetheless I felt myself warm up to him considerably. Octavia had been right on one count: Severus Snape indeed knew more than one was willing to grant him.

For a singular moment I thought I saw a blur of emotions pass over his face: confusion, relinquishment, sadness. But it was gone before I could study it further. He looked back at me, and the unjustifiable anger was once again present.

"I must then assume that you are one of the faculty who believes my work to be purposeless?" I questioned with a slight smile, trying to recapture an amiable spirit in the conversation.

"Not only purposeless, but profoundly and ultimately worthless," he answered matter-of-factly. Gone was the momentary implication of interest -- his features had once again fallen into uninspired apathy. "Allow me to go even further." 

He rose and took several resolute paces forward, pressing me further still into the stacks of antiquated books behind me. When he was mere inches from me, towering above me, he bent forward slightly as though to whisper something in my ear. My heart skipped like a toy too tightly wound, and I instinctually closed my eyes in anticipation.

After several hushed heartbeats the following words were spoken into my ear deeply and with deceptive gentleness: "It is, Miss Knight, absurd, ill-judged, and the grandest of follies. You are a fool to attempt it, and in the very end you will find you are certain of nothing. It is all one and the same, you see, but you will not be the one to discover this truth. You have neither the skill nor the intelligence. There is only failure in you. You would do well to turn around and go back to London."

He remained bent over me, his breath stirring some curls that had fallen loose about my ear, his lips almost scorching the pulse in the column of my neck. I kept my eyes closed and fought to remain calm through both my rising fury and corrupt desire. His hair brushed softly against my cheek. A gentle shiver racked my body, and I felt hot tears rising dangerously beneath my lashes. I stood, mute, confused, and undeniably disappointed, and eventually sensed him stepping away from me.

My chest rising and falling, I lifted my eyes to see him standing before me with his arms crossed once again in front of his chest. He was watching me with deep interest. And then, blinking back tears, I saw the unmistakable stamp of triumph slowly creep over his features. A pale shaft of sunlight illuminated his glittering eyes, and I knew then that he was aware of what he did to me; that it was an amusement with which he was wholly familiar.

"You are wrong," I breathed. I unfurled myself and poured forth into my tone all of the detestation and loathing I could muster. "I will not be bullied or frightened into giving up. Certainly not by you. What do _you _know of it? You are content to rule over your libational Pandæmonium like the angel of the pit. You wish to remain a slave to that which is familiar to you, and frustrate those who do not wish it? I dream of far greater things. You may stay and ulcerate in your dungeon like the foul thing you are; I assure you it makes no difference to me!"

As I flung these words at him I caught a fleeting glance of his face – his cruel smile had faded, though not enough to remove it altogether – before I brushed past him and ran for the door. I had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of witnessing my tears as they let loose and rolled freely down my cheeks. 

I threw open the door and ran headlong into Octavia, who was in the process of opening it from the other side. She looked from my face to the black form standing beyond me before I wrenched past her and flew down the darkened corridor, she at my heels. After climbing several flights of stairs I gave into my rage and hurt and sobbed openly. I slid down the wall until I crumbled in a velvet heap upon the stone floor. Octavia's arms were about me in an instant.

"I am so sorry dearheart. So sorry I wasn't there. He wasn't supposed to be in the classroom. He was scheduled in Dumbledore's office, and I thought it a good time. What did he say? What did he say to you?!" she pressed her palms into my burning cheeks.

I could only shake my head limply. It was too confusing to explain, even to her. How could I tell her that he had exposed my fear on so many levels? The fear of failure. The fear of not belonging. The fear of disapproval, of misunderstanding, of ridicule. And deeper yet, the fear of the unexplainable attraction I had for him. And upon the inception of that thought, the fear and realization of rejection.

She did not question me further, but simply held me. 

Later I returned to my rooms, and I did not leave them again that night. Indeed, not for many nights.


	5. Bloodroot

Chapter Five: _Bloodroot_

  
  
  
  
  


For three days I remain locked away in my rooms like some mediaeval paragon, learning every crack in the stone walls and taking only meager meals. I thought a great deal. So too did I drink a great deal. I was only too willing to succumb to those inner thoughts that knew me as flawed; I sought to fire that ideal through consumption and sloth.

I was not intruded upon. I found my meals waiting when I awoke, and heard naught from Octavia nor anyone else. I preferred it as such. Occasionally I would ponder what was being said about me below, but just as soon pushed the thought aside as the absinthe met my tongue. I heard voices and saw shadows, but they did not concern or move me. I watched the gray skies of the land as they marched by with little change; it was a dreary milieu that seemed born of both my heart and mind. 

On the third night I sat before the flame of a single candle for hours, calling forth advocates of thought and silent whisperers of doubt. A great battle was waged and won. 

On the fourth day I arose and threw from myself the depression that had been my albatross. I opened the windows of the suite and saw that the sun was good. I unpacked my papers and instruments and set them to rest upon the many surfaces of the various workrooms, wiping them clean with care and trust. I bathed in violets and took from the wardrobe an emerald gown that shimmered like scarabs adrift in Mediterranean waters. I strapped about my waist a corset of silver metal that embraced my waist like both lover and executioner; I tightened it until my ribs were bruised and my hands nearly met around its tiny circumference. I rubbed lavender oil into my hair until it resembled a rippling, bayoulike stream in the dead of a crane-songed night. My lips and cheeks I gently reddened, my eyes I kholed like a gypsy, and I cared not. 

Gone was my fear, my embarrassment. I had never in my life spoken with such heat and rage as I had to Severus Snape that day in his classroom, with so little self-control; I was determined to never repeat the display. In the future I would not be so easily swayed by his merciless presence. I was now aware of the sport and amusement he sought, and I swore never again be its pastime. I was determined to command, if not respect, at least an understanding of who I was and what I stood for. It was their chessboard, yes; but I was my own queen.

I entered the Great Hall with my head up and defiance in my eye. A silence befell the breakfast crowd, and I saw Octavia, toast caught midway to her lips, gape at my approach. I made no gesture, but found my chair between her and Remus and seated myself with deliberateness. Immediately the food was upon my plate, and I buttered a piece of toast with detached interest. 

Remus had remained utterly still at my arrival, and though I felt his confusion burn into me I did not acknowledge him. 

Octavia reached for her tea, and as her fingers gripped the cup's handle I heard her gruff and soft voice: "_That's_ my girl. Show them."

I ate with zest and looked neither at Remus nor down the remaining bit of table to where the potions master sat. Remus made several gentle and silent attempts to draw my attention, but I ignored them until I had at last finished eating. And then I turned to him.

"I understand," I said plainly. "I understand."

He smiled sadly and his hand found mine. He said nothing more. 

Later I walked onto the grounds. I strolled under a canopied forest by the lake, the sunlight dappling the ground underfoot and cresting the lake's ripples in gold. I looked through the bowing trees to the cerulean sky beyond and its majestic clouds, and its splendor shone upon me and demanded absolute veneration, which I too happily submitted . A breeze blew like a freed spirit through the branches and I could not help but throw my arms out in unexplained joy to embrace its deliverance. I lay down on a bank of moss and drew my fingers through the water's edge, drawing the unclouded liquid into my palm and wondering at its warmth. I stroked the vegetation that lay beneath its surface. I rolled onto my back and, allowing the dancing light to play upon me, swam between dream and wakefulness, occasionally watching from under my lashes a passing bird sweep above me. The smell of wild things and raging flowers filled my senses and sang like a sluggish lullaby until I drifted into undisturbed sleep.

When I awoke, the sky was burning in crimson violence. I returned to the castle silently, somewhat aware that I had missed the day's last meal and yet ultimately unconcerned. I climbed the myriad of steps to the seventh floor, stopping every now and again to examine a painting I found interesting, at times even pulled into a brief conversation with its subject, before moving on. 

I at last reached the destined landing and made my way to my rooms. I felt unusually renewed and alive. I planned on outlining some of my immediate experiments upon retiring for the night, and looked forward to the following day's unearthings with a gladness I had not previously thought possible. 

As I pulled my door key from a deep pocket and placed it within the lock, I sensed him. A savage jolt shot through my innards and, looking down the corridor lit only by torches, I saw a darker shadow leaning against the wall to my left, hidden in the depths. Before I could speak, the shadow straightened and took several steps forward until it was revealed in the firelight. The potion master's robes hung about him in a cloud of solemn beauty and his hair fell close about his face, curling around his lips and jaw in soft defiance. His eyes revealed nothing but icy promise and at their base, a sinister and undisclosedend. There was a line of anger cut between his brows; his lips were thin and taught. I realized that I had ceased breathing and, gathering my wits about me, turned to face his Mephistophelian form.

"Professor," I acknowledged cooly.

"Miss Knight."

I remained before my door, fingers on the handle, and awaited his next move with slight fear and much determination.

He proceeded in an uninterested, if not disdainful, tone: "Octavia tells me you have been ill."

I remained silent. I was admittedly surprised that he cared. Perhaps I _had_ misjudged him?

"My concern . . . " he continued, "is that the potion you took that particular morning did not agree with you; I wanted to clarify that if and when such a thing happens it is nearly always due to the chemical makeup of the person ingesting the potion." He looked anything _but_ concerned as he then drawled the seemingly irresistible afterthought: "_I_ do not make mistakes in such matters." 

The unbelievable nerve.

"I assure you, you needn't concern yourself with my welfare, Professor. I would in fact prefer it if you didn't," I forced myself to say.

He was silent, as though in sudden doubt, but only for a moment.

"I cannot help but comment on the fact that you look . . . _less ill_ than what I had been led to believe." His eyes swept over me, but I could not determine whether it was disgust or surprise that caused his brow to lift and the right side of his mouth to frown ever so subtly.

"Well then, I am sorry to have no doubt disappointed you. If you'll excuse me, Professor." I opened my door and pressed forward, but found that his arm had placed itself with speed across its frame, successfully blocking my path. I noted the long row of cloth buttons climbing over his wrist and forearm, and for the first time I pondered the fact that the blackness was not an actual living part of him but rather only an aspect of his dress. I did not turn to face him but kept my chin forward, my eyes locked on his clothed wrist. The smallest hint of a white cuff peeked teasingly from under the coat sleeve. He was very near, and I swallowed back the uneasy excitement growing within me.

"I find myself in the . . . uncommon situation of apologizing," he said begrudgingly. "I would like ours to be a professional relationship, and as such, I feel the need to recant those sentiments I so strongly put forth the other afternoon."

He fairly growled the words at me, and I could not help but wonder if he had rehearsed them. They were no doubt infrequent in his vocabulary, and if his voice spoke to one end, his features betrayed another entirely. I smiled bitterly at him.

"Thank you for the heartfelt consideration, Professor Snape. But I believe it unnecessary. My work has nothing to do with you; if we are lucky our paths will not cross at any time in the future. A relationship – as you say, a professional relationship – will therefore not be a factor whatsoever. Do not concern yourself over it any longer." At an uncontrollable urging I added ironically: "_I_ certainly will not."

His eyes darkened and he threw his head back in apparent disinterest, tossing the ebony locks that had spilled forward into his face. He once again looked at me, eyes narrowed and hooded, left brow arching in its familiar way. His lips then curled back in a loaded grin. 

"As you wish," he said. Running his eyes once more over me in apparent disgust, he turned on his heel, giving me a final, electrified glare, and swept down the corridor to disappear around a corner.

As soon as I saw that he had indeed departed, I flung myself into my suite and slammed the door behind me. Immediately, my knees weakened and I sank down into an arm chair before the hearth. My heart trip-hammering, I loosed the metal corset and dress and tossed them upon the floor. I felt utterly and deliciously alive and yet altogether pained. I could not understand it. 

Despite my inner reluctance, I took solace in yet another bitter liquid. I told myself that it helped me in my thoughts, though for the rest of the night my thoughts were not with me, but instead in the embrace of the darkness and flesh of another.

For the next week I worked in my rooms while the sun shone, and took my nightly meals with the rest of the staff in the Great Hall. I found myself talking a great deal with Remus, and we eventually became comfortable in one another's presence. Oftentimes he would spend several hours in my rooms as I worked; I enjoyed sharing my theories with him even though he did not necessarily understand them, and his supportive and friendly company served to bolster my confidence as well as keep a smile on my face. 

He allowed me the use of his wand, and I would have him describe the different spells and their properties as he demonstrated their effects. Although I would request he do a spell over and over again, his patience never seemed to diminish, and we found ourselves doubled over with silly laughter more than once when a spell did not achieve its intended outcome.

One late afternoon he sat across from me while I scribbled equations in a notebook.

"I leave tomorrow for London," he said.

I looked up from my writing and saw that he was looking toward a nearby window with a look of what I took to be longing imprinted on his face.

"So soon?" I asked a bit dejectedly. I hadn't thought of what would happen once he left; it was a few more months before the beginning of the term, and those months now seemed an eternity with the prospect of his absence.

He smiled warmly at me. "It's only for a short time. It will be late summer before you realize it."

I set my notebook down and frowned.

"You'll be fine," he laughed, and his eyes crinkled softly. 

I felt the sudden urge to embrace him then, for he represented to me the one brightness at Hogwarts, the one unfaltering element on which I could depend.

I stifled my unhappiness and smiled back at him. "Well, if anything, it will give me the one thing to which I can now look forward."

"As it will for me," he said softly, and a heavy silence befell us.

The sun glowed as a fire in the west, and I abruptly pushed my chair back and stood up, breaking that delicate and invisible connection that had settled between us. 

"I think we need a toast," I said as I walked toward the outer room. "Would you join me in a glass of brandy?" It did not fall unnoticed on me that I had once again, when faced with an awkward moment, looked to that amber liquid for abatement. But I did not dwell on the thought. Remus assented, and I poured out two snifters with what I noticed was a too-practiced hand and returned to him.

"Here's to your success while I am away," he smiled.

"And to your swift return," I countered.

We lifted the round glasses in our palms and watched the last rays of the sun die.

Several hours after having the nightly meal in the Great Hall, I decided to stop by Remus's rooms to wish him a safe journey and to ask him to write when he could. However, upon knocking on his door I received no answer, and wondered if he was asleep. But I was aware that Remus was a self-proclaimed night owl, and it was therefore unlikely that he had retired so early. I decided to stop by his office, to see if perhaps he was gathering materials to take with him or preparing the office for his return.

Although I had refrained from wearing black clothing for some time, I wore a black gown tonight and was secretly grateful for it, as I ended up getting quite lost and would have rather not have had any witnesses to my directional inability. I swept down the darkened halls until I regained my bearings and at last came to the threshold of Remus's office. I knocked softly and pushed the door open a crack.

"I was wondering if you were going to show up before I left," he said somewhat irritably. He then looked up and saw my face peeking in. "Davina! I'm sorry, please come in."

He was seated at his desk, apparently sifting through various books and documents. As I entered, however, he stood up with a bright smile and came around his desk to meet me.

"This is an unexpected surprise!" he laughed as he took my hands.

"I wanted to wish you well," I smiled back. "And to ask that you write occassionally. I don't know what else will keep me going." 

He held my hands and beamed, and his kindness surrounded him as a palpable thing.

"I hope that owl post is acceptable?" he asked. "The regular post doesn't quite know of Hogwarts."

I laughed. "How could I have forgotten? Of course, send it by elephant if it will get to me."

He produced a smile, but it faded somewhat as he looked into my eyes.

"Promise me you'll notify me if anything . . . unusual happens," he said.

I looked back at him with a confused grin. "Of course I will, Remus. But what could possibly happen? I am looking down the tunnel at several very dull months ahead of me."

He ignored my laughter and looked at me with a seriousness I had not before thought him capable of. My smile died.

"Promise me." His hands had come up to place themselves on my upper arms, and he forced me to look back at him as he spoke. "Promise me."

"Yes, all right," I said, a bit bewildered. I thought it unusual for him to overreact so. I looked back at him, concerned.

After a moment, his face relaxed and he smiled shyly. "I don't want anything to happen," he said simply, shrugging. He smiled at the ground and then looked back up at me with an unfamiliar intensity. One of his hands slowly slid up and over my shoulder, and his fingers caught themselves in my hair.

My breath ceased in my chest at this unexpected forwardness, and yet I found I could not turn away. He was so kind, so gentle . . . I closed my eyes unwillingly and found myself leaning toward him.

His fingers now gripped my hair tightly, and I sensed him drawing close. I lifted my face.

The office door swung open with a bang, and Severus Snape swept in, his capes following behind him like minion.

"Well Lupin, this should be enough for --" he stopped abruptly in his tracks as he caught sight of Remus and I. A look of pure thunder crossed his features as he took in the scene. 

Remus stepped quickly away from me and turned to the potions master. He cleared his throat embarrassingly.

"Ah, thank you Severus. I think that it will indeed suffice." he took a large vial from Severus's hand and placed it on the desk.

I shot a glance at the potions master and saw that he was looking at me with a mixture of shock and unadulterated loathing. He no doubt found the scene highly unprofessional, I thought.

"I _do_ apologize for interrupting," he said menacingly, never taking his black eyes from me. It was as though the heavens had closed into a whirlwind about his form, darkening Remus's office in a cloud that he, and he alone, controlled.

I suddenly felt the urgent need to depart, to find shelter from that maelstrom. I reached for Remus.

"Please take care," I said as he turned to me. "Be safe."

I then picked up my skirts in one hand and brushed by the potions master forcefully, determined not to return his gaze.

"Davina . . ." Remus called after me, but I did not turn back. Indeed, I fled all the way back to my rooms and locked myself in. 

I leaned against the door, my chest heaving and a chill gathering on my flesh. I had felt something in that room -- something animal and foreign -- and it had frightened me to death. 

Later as I lay awake my thoughts strayed to the vial that the potions master had brought to Remus. It had been the size of his hand and pear-shaped, with a cork stuck firmly in its mouth. The glass itself had exhibited an unusual yellow tint, and so the liquid had appeared brown and opaque to my eyes when the light had shone upon it. Naturally, in my current state, my mind brewed a paranoia that worked itself into nearly every reasonable theory I could produce. I did not think it a potion for a simple headache, nor did I think it something so elementary as a hangover tonic. Did Remus suffer from something that was chronic? Was pain his constant companion? That would explain his tired, somewhat disheveled appearance. Sympathy swelled in my breast; yet on its heels came doubt. Severus Snape had said something upon entering the office . . . what had it been? I could not remember his exact words, but they had struck me as conspiratorial at the time. And Remus has seemed quite flustered at the potion master's arrival with the vial. Could he and Remus be at work together on something they did not wish to have discovered by others?

I looked up at the underside of the bed's canopy. I also could not logically explain the potion master's reaction upon finding Remus and I together; if what I had been led to believe about Severus Snape was true, he had had a number of dealings with women before – he could not possibly be an innocent to the nature of intimacy. I scoffed. Indeed, he seemed a master of that art, an experienced virtuoso of seduction. Could he have been angered by the fact that he was ultimately unsuccessful in fettering my attentions before Remus had claimed them? I could not help but roll my eyes at the idea. I was now undeniably flattering myself. Hogwarts was indeed like a small island with very vew inhabitants, but it was not _entirely_ disconnected from the world. If romantic diversions were sought, one need only step foot elsewhere; there was no lack of opportunities, surely?

I closed my eyes and drew the duvet close about me. If Hogwarts was indeed an island, it did not require much contemplation as to who ruled as the lord of the flies.


	6. Hemlock

Chapter Six: _Hemlock_

  
  
  
  


Ribbons of smoke curled and encircled Octavia's languid form as I sat with her in conversation the following morning. She held a long and delicate black pipe in her left hand and was smoking it thoughtfully. "After all," she had said long ago, "why should women not also enjoy the taste of wizard's tobacco?" I was inclined to agree though I kept my own indulgences bottle-born. 

Octavia exhaled noisily; the steam from our coffee cups mingled with the pipe smoke in a vaporous waltz above our heads.

"I wonder how you are coming along?" she asked.

I sighed. Reclining in my chair, I threw my hands up in slight frustration.

"It is slow indeed, if not at a literal standstill." She prompted me with a subtle gesture. "To be honest, I don't have the equipment necessary to test my theories. And that's the least of my problems. I simply don't know where to begin. It's like digging a tunnel to the other side of the world when all you have is a spoon." I rubbed my temple. "It is too great a task; I fear I am in over my head."

"My dear Davina, all great things do not start off so. Even the biggest tree was once a seed."

I glared at her from under my palm. "Smoking always makes you philosophical."

She smiled a feline smile and shrugged lazily. 

We sat in silence for a time.

"And so, what will you do?" she asked at last. 

I brought my fingers to my lips in thought. "Well . . . I suppose I shall begin to dig. Perhaps something will eventually come of it. I may have to set my sights on something a bit less complex than spells and wands. I wonder . . . " my forlorn thoughts had inadvertently fallen upon a possibility. A very foul-tasting possibility. I tapped a finger on the corner of my mouth.

"Yes?" Octavia waited with genuine interest. 

I looked quickly up at her. "Erm," I waved my hand in slow dismissal. "No, nothing. Just a stray thought."

She sighed and set her pipe upon the table between us. "Business takes me into the city for a while," she said. "I may be gone for a week or two."

"Oh not you too," I sighed in lamentation. A dark feeling of exposure grew within me. Surely with Octavia gone, I would be little more than raw meat thrown to the wolves.

"Now don't get overly upset," she smiled at me. "You are stronger than you let on. And Dumbledore would not allow bad things to befall you. Besides, these are merely _people_, Davina."

"You forgot the elves and the ghosts," I mumbled.

She pursed her lips in a guarded smile.

"You yourself have warned me rather sternly about the potions master," I pointed out, unconsciously maneuvering her toward the taboo topic. 

"I have," she said as she looked at me over her spectacles. "And yet, underneath it all, he too is only a man. Do not think on him overlong, dear friend. Your energy is better spent elsewhere."

I looked away from her. I would do well to better contain my thoughts, I mused dryly. 

"You mean to say you are pleased with my friendship with Remus," I said without emotion.

"He is a kind man," she conceded.

"And a good friend," I stated with emphasis. I did not want any misinterpretations. 

"Whom are you trying to convince?" she asked me pointedly.

I let my gaze return to her but did not reply. 

Whom indeed.

The greater part of my day was spent in contemplation. I sat alone at a small worktable in a corner of one of the open workrooms and played absently with a pencil, twirling it upon the table surface as I mulled over that thought that had tripped into my mind earlier. It was a bitter and uncomfortable thought. I tried desperately to denounce it; I argued against it at every turn. And yet the result was always the same. 

I leaned back and chewed the pencil's end. There was no direct link between the magic at Hogwarts and any possible mathematical equation I could create. I had been essentially attempting to bridge a gap between two bodies that existed, for all the world, in complete opposition of one another. I had been attempting to do it with no basic structure. There was, however, one thing at Hogwarts that might create that structure. One thing that _was_ measurable, observable, and easily manipulated. One thing I could expand upon given the proper circumstances.

I bit hard into the pencil and snorted in derision despite myself. 

Chemistry. 

Potions.

_Damn._

I tossed the pencil upon the table and crossed my arms in irritation, remembering my previous confrontation with Severus Snape.

He had known. He had known that I would eventually be forced to take the path that led to him. And I had not seen it. I had sent him away with nothing more than a flippant remark, and now my pride would surely pay for it. I had no disillusions that he would make it easy for me; I had unwillingly made myself the pawn in what in all likelihood would turn out to be a very ugly game of payback. If only there were someone else, an assistant, or another professor who knew potions well. For a fleeting moment I even considered leaving Hogwarts altogether rather than face the potions master, so deep was my uncourageousness. I needn't leave an explanation. The thought died as soon as it tasted the air. No. If I couldn't think of myself then I must certainly think of Penelope. I did not want her first year to be born under the shadow of my humiliation and cowardice. _Oh, but am I strong enough for such a thing as this?_ _What happens to the weak soul who provokes the devil?_

I ran a hand through my hair and attempted to hatch a feasible route of action. What made the potions master tick? How could I get what I needed from him with as little pain and energy as possible? Once again I cursed my lot. No matter what tack I chose, I knew Severus Snape would make it infinitely difficult, if not impossible. 

Well, I thought as I at last arose and straightened my gown, there is nothing for it. The medicine may be bitter going down, but the sooner it is taken, the better.

The afternoon sun was bright at this hour in the typically dark hallways. I made my way down to the dungeons on disquieted foot. I was not wholly sure that the potions master could be found in his classroom at this time of day, but as I did not know the location of his office, it seemed as good a chance as any. My footsteps echoed desolately in my ears.

Upon reaching the familiar classroom door, I paused and took a moment to gather my wits about me. I acknowledged that I had to be prepared for the worst. I took a shallow breath, forced upon my face an expression of light indifference, and pushed open the door.

As I had seen it once before, the afternoon light penetrated the many jars and vials about the room, like a hopeful song in a land of dead glass, to only fall unbidden upon vacant desks. The room itself was empty. 

I paused uncertainly in the doorway. A short debate arose in my mind: should I look elsewhere for the potions master, or should I venture into his classroom and see what items or books resided within that may aid me? 

I walked silently within as I debated, dragging fingers along abandoned desktops; they left smooth tracks in the layering of dust. I stood for several minutes in the center of the room, ear cocked for any wayward sounds. My eyes fell once again upon the professor's desk, and then beyond it to the piles of books that stood in its shadow.

My skirts whispered as I carefully climbed the steps and bent over to inspect the leather spines. They were all of them at least 300 years old. I sighed in frustration, then closed my eyes and wedged my fingers around a random tome. I pulled it free and carried it to one of the students' desks, blowing the dust from its cover as I sat down.

_Abutan Aettryne Drynce_.

Well, it sounded scientific.

I paged through it, looking for illustrations. There were woodcuts of various plants and animals, but what their relevance was I could not determine. One particular woodcut displayed a disturbing image of what was apparently a pile of corpses next to which stood an enlarged goblet that radiated beams of power. I pondered it distastefully. 

On another page, a man was shown listening outside of a room wherein a naked couple lay upon a bed in the obvious throes of pain. The woman, hair scattered upon the boxy mattress, had a hand to her throat. Her lover's mouth was black and open, his primitively-rendered arm reaching into the space about him, his eyes wide. I turned the yellowed page.

Horrid, horrid engravings.

The sound of footsteps jolted me upright, and before I could close the book and stand, the classroom door opened and Severus Snape entered. He had closed the door behind him and had taken several steps before he caught sight of my seated form. 

He did not stop in surprise as I had expected, but merely glanced at me and continued to make his way to his desk. I cursed my heart as it clenched within my chest. How I loathed its reaction.

"Miss Knight," he acknowledged lightly, disregardfully. He had approached his desk and was now searching through its topmost drawer, completely unmindful of my presence.

I had not expected this. 

"Professor," I replied slowly. I was unsure of how to proceed; I found I could think of no words to say. I had been prepared for a verbal onslaught, and he had once again easily disarmed me. 

He ignored me and continued to search within the desk drawer until at last he held a small slip of paper in his hand. I noticed that he did not wear his usual robes, but a well-fitted frock coat. The long white fingers holding the paper contrasted with the coat's blackness, and his ebony hair swept his jaw just above its high collar. He stood straight, slipped the paper in a side pocket, then tossed his head slightly as he descended the steps from his desk. He looked at me as though I were nothing more than a common sight, a passerby on a train platform, perhaps. 

"I . . ." I tried desperately to create a bond, no matter how fragile. 

His eyes fell upon the book I held; he walked over to the desk at which I sat, his shadow falling upon me. He placed a lazy finger on the book's cover.

"I was unaware you knew Old English," he said, then shot a black look at me in challenge.

"I'm afraid I don't," I replied lamely. "I was just --"

His fingers wrapped around the book and he snatched it to him in graceful nonchalance. "I wonder what a_ scientist _such as yourself would be doing reading a book about poisons," he said as he studied the cover. He looked again at me sharply, and I scrambled for an explanation.

"I can't pretend to not acknowledge that I may have been a bit hasty in discarding potions as a relative factor in my work," I began, eager to speak eloquently and yet feeling rushed and agitated. "After some preliminary studies, I found that a connection–"

He dropped the book with deliberate force upon the desk, interrupting me. He eyed me dully and with bored countenance, his pale hand still outstretched over the desk in dramatic pose.

I watched him apprehensively.

"May I suggest that you then brush up on your ancient languages? You will find it helpful when trying to decipher such works," he drawled, his chin high and his manner insolent. "Although if I remember correctly, the library may have some . . . simple and laconic materials you may find manageable."

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from replying in haste. 

He stood for a moment, silently daring me to speak. It was deathly quiet down in the dungeons; even the sound of birdsong did not sustain in its heavy, dank depths. I found myself wondering if sounds had an equally difficult time of climbing out of its stone cavity. Could a scream be heard by those above?

Satisfied that I had been rendered dumb, he turned as if to leave.

"You disappoint me, Miss Knight," he sighed. "You are, if nothing else, terribly predictable." He stopped and glanced at me down his patrician nose. "Ah, but that is all that you know, is it not? Predictability? You base your work on it. Is it not a fair presumption that you follow that law in all corners of your life? You would no doubt go mad otherwise. I do not think your mind suitable for ungovernable thoughts or disobedient conceits." 

I knew perfectly well he was trying to bait me. I knew he wanted me to lose what little composure I held in check and unleash my fury upon him. He had not claimed victory before, and he would surely attempt to crush me now in his uncertain reign. It was childish, yes, but ultimately effective.

I stood up with what grace I could muster and tried to match him in undisturbed quiescence. 

"What _I_ think, Professor –"

"It is why you drink so hopelessly," he added with a perfected tone of feigned concern.

I was silenced as though slapped.

He looked back at me with a look of questioning, and yet perfectly smug, revelation.

I hated him in that moment.

"I know I am not altogether wrong," he said simply.

"And _that_,Professor Snape, is your greatest failing," I managed to whisper. "Your very skewed idea of your infallibility. It will be a very shocking day for you indeed when you are at last made to realize it."

He clasped his hands behind him and paced lightly before me as if in contemplation.

"Hmmm," he murmured aloud. The sound was like a lion's purr - it moved as if a solid thing and encircled me relentlessly. His eyes slid back to me suddenly. "Do you deny it, then?" 

"I refuse to entertain your notions of my . . . what did you call them? My 'ungovernable thoughts' and their affects on me. Do not attempt to draw me into an empty debate with you, Professor. You are wasting both of our times by doing so."

He stopped pacing and faced me directly for the first time that afternoon. "I assure you, Miss Knight, I have far more pressing concerns than to spar with you. I was in the midst of one of those concerns when I found _you_ in _my_ classroom. It is in fact _you_ who are wasting my time at the moment." 

I found my thoughts battling for authority – the desire to retaliate and the need for information – I at last swallowed my bitter pride and succumbed to cool reason. 

"I can come back at a later time, if more convenient." I said stiffly.

He crossed his arms before him and regarded me. "You needn't bother. I don't know when I will be returning. You may look through the books I have in the classroom, for all it will do you." He turned and began walking toward the classroom door. "And I must ask you to not remove them from this classroom. Take notes if you will, but I will not chase my books around the school to retrieve them."

He had reached the door by the time I was able to vocalize my thoughts: "I assume, then, that you know why I am here, why it is that I wish to look into potions and their properties."

He stopped and looked at me over his shoulder.

"The question is, Miss Knight, do you know?"

Before I could answer he had exited the room and left me quite alone.

Darkness had fallen quickly, and I was forced to light several candles with a matchbox Octavia had given me; I had found it terribly inconvenient to be unable to use a spell on the things within my own room – indeed, the general lack of electricity was nothing if not indescribably bothersome. 

After the candles had been lit, I turned once again to the piles of books I had collected and that now were heaped at my feet. I had found a few from the 18th century that I could decipher, though I had to mentally replace the printed "f" with an "s" continually as I read:

"It i_f_ a de_f_tructive and _f_infull potion con_f_i_f_ting of the root of mandrake and the e_ff_ence of dove_f_ blood, the following i_f _u_f_ed : რჲ∮ _l_ y – "

I gritted my teeth in frustration. I recognized some of the symbols within a mathematical context, but I could never hope to understand their meaning here. I had looked in vain for some sort of chart, some translation that would enlighten me to their meaning, but none could be found. I had taken extensive notes, though they were covered in splotches of ink, as I was forced to use one of the quills from a student's desk to a messy effect. 

To my delight, I had earlier come across several recipes for potions that included chemical properties, but they were written in so archaic a language that I was forced to scribble them down for study at a later time. Nonetheless, I found them promising.

After copying the symbols from the mandrake entry, I laid the quill down and massaged my fingers tiredly. I sat quietly in thought, and came to the dismal conclusion that there was simply no hope of understanding potions from what I had discerned from the dusty tomes about me. I frowned. The olive branch must undeniably be extended, and I hoped I had the constitution to hold it firmly.

I reached down and pulled yet another book from the stack at the foot of the desk, then briefly considered putting it off until the following day. I found myself exhausted from the myriad of symbols dancing in my head, and thought of my bed with longing.

As if on cue, the door to the classroom opened and the potions master entered. His eyebrows were drawn together in preoccupation; his hands gripped the empty air at his sides as though to better fuel his thoughts. He looked up and saw me then, and the familiar mask of indifference fell upon his features.

"I had not thought to still find you here," he said, the tiredness in his voice barely detectable. "You are admirably dogged, I must admit." He closed the door behind him and walked to where I sat, lifting an eyebrow at the mess of parchment and ink. "And so, what have you discovered?"

I did not immediately answer him; I was torn between admitting defeat and pretending absolute confidence. I eyed him speculatively, attempting to gauge his mood and thereby decide which answer to give. He looked genuinely curious.

"I am somewhat puzzled," I replied slowly. "While I understand a portion of what is written, the rest might as well be written in cuneiform." I waved a hand over my notes. "You can see that I am struggling."

A small smirk formed upon his lips, but it was not one of criticism or smugness. He reached out his hand and picked up the parchment piece on which I had been writing.

"It must not be easy for you" he said as he looked over my notes. "You are in a different world altogether, are you not?" He pointed out an especially ugly ink spill on the page. "A computer would not allow for something like this." He resumed looking at the parchment. "I see you have written down those recipes that follow a chemical formula." He nodded in approval. "Well, it is a start."

I watched him as he placed the parchment back on the desk before me, and I tried desperately to read his countenance. He mind was elsewhere, I could see. I wondered what consumed his thoughts so. 

He stood in silence for a time, looking blankly at the notes in front of me, before lightly throwing his head back as if awoken from a trance. He gazed at me as though seeing me for the first time.

"I could use a drink," he said unapologetically. "Would you care to join me?"

I started, for I had taken his invitation as a direct challenge, if not a flagrant insult. Was he testing me? His expression displayed no mischievousness, though I knew that to be an uncertain method of measurement. I said nothing.

He shrugged. "I speak for myself when I say I could use one, of course. I assure you I would not be hurt were you to decline." 

My mind raced. I would like nothing better, I knew. And yet was this simply another game? Another manipulation? It was the height of impropriety. And yet he had seen me with Remus. Did he think me merely something to conquer? And the ringing thought: how can I use this to my advantage?

I looked at him, then down at the notes around me.

"Could we discuss what I have written?" I asked tentatively.

He was unaffected. "Of course."

I nodded and gathered the slips of parchment to me. When I moved to gather the books, he waved a hand disregardfully. "Leave them. Some things demand immediate attention."

I arose and prepared myself for a journey through the nighttime castle, but was surprised to see him sweep past me to a small wooden door to right of the classroom that I had not before noticed. 

"Your office – is it down here?" I asked incredulously as he laid a hand on the door's handle.

He turned. "And where else would you have the angel of the pit reside?"

The door opened with a creak, and he beckoned me forward.

And like Persephone, I descended.


	7. Black Locust

  


Chapter Seven - _Black Locust_

  
  


The corridor was frigid and unsociable. Severus Snape's footsteps echoed hollowly between the walls, rolling and reverberating against one another in the dark. I was anxious and confused, but not altogether paralyzed, and as I walked I thought. I am real. I am atoms and membrane. I am the machine of science. And I felt a slight resistence in the materials around me, the materials of Hogwarts. The stone and the musty air teased me and bantered: _we are dream, we are knowledge, we are eternal. _The potion master was a part of that fabric, the long tapestry of secluded and arcane weavings. It was a labyrinth of unseen truths and deceits, and as I turned each corner, crafty-eyed and wary, I kept in the rampant light of my mind the fierce promise I had made days before: I would not be so easily moved by either word or deed.

Torches along the wall sprang alive of their own accord as we approached, flaring and disgorging smoke like fevered zealots, until we at last reached yet another wooden door, beyond which I assumed the potion master's office lay. Strange how I had come to this step before his door. Were we not bitter enemies only hours before in the burnt sunlight? I had sensed a change within him -- a shift -- though its temporality may be short-lived and dangerously misinterpreted. Something had weakened him --had weighed so heavily upon him – that his great atmosphere had folded in on itself like a collapsed star. He knew I sensed this and yet, whether due to exhausted apathy or lowered opinion of me, he cared not. He thought of other immediate things. He kept his secrets to himself. He turned to me in the half-light and I knew I could not be misled into a sense of comfort, for as soon as his eyes found mine the volcanic fire could be seen in their obsidian landscape, bubbling and hissing just beneath their hairline-cracked surfaces. 

He placed an ancient key in the well-oiled lock and the door swung back on silent hinges. Dust upon the floor gusted and curled inward, following the door's path. The space before me yawned like a gaping, toothless mouth, and I knew nervous, bald uncertainty as I faced that unknown void. I hesitated at the threshold, but he waved a steady and assured hand to have me enter before him. I did as he bade, and heard the door close behind him as he too stepped into the nothingness. The light from the hallway was shut out abruptly, and my heart marched excitedly in my ears and, I fancied, echoed further still in the undefined surroundings. Seconds passed in that way - he made no movement - and instinctual horror began to vine about me.

His voice at last: "Lumos," and all about us candelabra burst into flame.

Now revealed to me was that lair in which the potions master kept counsel like a great curled dragon, opening a lazy eye to his students and breathing vaporous fumes upon their endeavors. I found it cold, and not just for lack of a fire. The walls were lined with jars of varying liquid tints, resembling in one form or another different bodily fluids or anemic stained glass. Creatures hung suspended in the bitter substances like insects in amber. There was a small pair of gothic windows behind his small round desk, but their panes were opaque and murky, as though the office itself sat at the bottom of a deadened pool where only the strongest of lights could breach its solitude. Black iron curled in ornate patterns, dark shelves towered, and the effect was one of stumbling upon a regal but sinister laboratory. 

As I studied my surroundings, I saw from the corner of my eye the professor approach a filigreed cupboard and pull from it two goblets. From a crowded shelf above he dislodged an unlabeled bottle, and I found myself watching him with interest as his fingers stretched and curled in the air like written music. I noted that his movements, even when hurried, were dramatic and graceful and perfectly practiced -- nearly inhuman. His melodic fingers uncorked the bottle and he deftly poured out a rich burgundy liquid into the two awaiting cups, then, after setting the bottle down, offered me one of the cups and nodded at a nearby leather chair situated to the left of an antique iron heater. As I took the goblet from him with false poise and found a seat in the large chair's creaking depths, the old heater roared to life quite suddenly, unaided. I shrank into the upholstery and swung my gaze to the potions master, who had taken a seat in a matching leather armchair opposite me. He gave a tight smile.

"I found there was warmth lacking," he said before lifting his cup in a toast. "To fate."

I followed his gesture, watched his eyes remain open and challenging, then brought the cold metal to my lips and let the wine gently enter my mouth. I did not immediately swallow it, but rather sought to taste it in an effort to detect any strangeness in flavor, for I did not entirely trust him despite our apparent truce. I watched as he drank from his cup, then, deciding that it was safe, allowed the wine down my throat in kind.

Its taste was sheer delight. After several brittle moments, it spread through me like an electric vibration, trailing hotly to my stomach and setting at ease both my limbs and concerns. It was unlike anything I had ever tasted. I smiled at its sublimity. I could not stop myself. 

Looking up, I found the potion master's eyes upon me, and I felt my cheeks flush with color under his scrutiny. I had succumbed to my weakness, and he was aware. I turned away. There was silence between us.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?" Severus Snape asked with curiosity. He had reclined in the chair, allowing one hand to rest lazily on a carved wooden arm and one of his ankles to lift and rest on its opposite knee. His boots reflected the flames in the small opening of the heater. He gave the impression of a bored prince upon his throne.

I was about to answer confidently in the negative, but something stopped me. I felt the unquenchable urge to tell him my true feelings, felt that I _could_ in fact trust him, felt that he wanted, above all, to hear my thoughts in an effort to right things between us . . . felt that I could tell this man everything.

I considered his coat buttons. "I . . . yes. Yes you do." I said. My voice sounded unfamiliar and vacant in my ears, and as soon as the words left me I regretted them. I looked down into my cup. _What had stopped me? _I asked myself angrily. Fool! I gripped the goblet all the harder.

"Hmmm." He brought a hand to his cheek, several of his fingers curling under his lower lip in thought. His eyes narrowed as if to better see me in the mild firelight. "And tell me, Miss Knight, why did you decide to seek me out this afternoon?"

"I assumed you knew why," I replied, suddenly taking an intense interest in the goblet's engravings. The small smell of flame and wood snaked into my lungs, and I inhaled its primitive scent, felt it cloud my brain. I yearned for night air.

"I would like to hear it from your own lips," he said. His voice. _Ah, his voice._

I fought, I clenched my fingers, I tightened the muscles in my neck, but once again the desire to reveal my motives and feelings overruled me. "I think that by studying potions and their chemical properties I may better understand and further my work," I said to the goblet. Robotic voice. My other hand, still holding the stack of parchments, crumpled them in agitation.

"You may have done so through other means," his voice came to me and covered me in its warm-honeyed cloak. "You needn't necessarily come to me directly. There are other ways of achieving your goal. You know this, surely. Why then, did you seek me out?" The words were seductive and gentle, and yet crawling beneath their tone, mistrust and anger moved on silent fingers and toes.

"I could not possibly hope to acquire the knowledge necessary by books alone," I answered steadily. I found I could not control the words that sprang from my tongue. "And though I had thought of searching for another who knows of potions, I simply could not think of asking elsewhere." I bit firmly down on my tongue to prevent myself from admitting anything further. I swallowed wine and watched his lip-stroking fingers.

"And why not?"

"Pardon me?"

"Why not someone else?"

I gritted my teeth in frustration. An awakening truth crept toward the crest of my mind, heretofore hidden even from myself, and though I fought to still it, it released itself with treachery: "I . . .I wanted to see you," I whispered miserably. I could not help but look up at him to see what affect, if any, these words had on him. I cringed inwardly at my utter lack of control. 

"I see . . ." he replied, his eyelids lowering a fraction and his fingers curling a bit more. "And for what reason did you want to _see_ _me_, exactly?" 

I could not – would not -- continue, I swore. I thought to change the subject, to perhaps start an argument -- anything to avoid his questions. I struggled, rallying all of my mental strength, but once again the need to be honest with him beat me down into uncontrollable submission. I sat, expressionless, and whispered again: "You intrigue me. I think of you ceaselessly. You are cruel to me and yet . . . and yet I desire you. It tortures me and drives me mad and I don't understand it." I nearly wept with the admission; so true was it and so desperately did I loathe myself for having stated it. 

He shifted slightly, and my eyes sought out his face. There was quiet surprise there; it had not been the answer he had expected. The knowledge of it shocked me, for I had thought the confession would spur him into self-indulgent gloating, or perhaps produce smug mockery. But his face registered only a subtle confusion, a hint of weight. I turned self-consciously from him and once again brought the goblet to my lips. How I wished to be anywhere but in his presence! I sat in awkward misery as the silence grew in the space around us.

"I see," he said again, simply. 

Tension then sat between us, a third party to our discussion, and its presence was unbearable. I did not look at the potions master. My thoughts swirled and raged. I had surely ruined everything with my confession; he would not help me now. Indeed, he would most likely use my feelings against me. Why oh _why_ had I so easily divulged them? Did I think it would change things? Had I hoped he would be responsive? I felt quite sick.

With the sound of chaffing leather I heard him arise from his chair. Was he going to dismiss me? Tell me once I again that I should leave Hogwarts? Or would he, armed with this new insight, take advantage of it? I nervously turned my head and watched as he approached the heater, his goblet in hand. Once In front of its heat, he then turned and paced slowly, thoughtfully, across the space of the small office. The sound of his boots upon the stone floor invaded the omnipresent quietude that hung over us. After several rotations, he stopped and leaned against a larger table covered with glass beakers and flasks and eyed me speculatively. His hair fell gently forward.

"And how did you come to know Octavia?" he asked, as though we had only just begun our conversation.

"Octavia?" I replied, startled. I was torn between relief that he did not intend on discussing my admission further, and hurt that he considered it so trifling a topic. "I've known her since adolescence." 

"Yes. But _how_ did you meet her?" he pressed, a note of impatience hardening his tone. He reached up a hand and deftly undid two cloth buttons at the collar of his coat, allowing more of the white shirt underneath to peek out. His expression was veiled.

"We met in the countryside, after my parents had moved from London. Her parents had just moved from America, and they owned land next door to my parents. She caught me napping under a tree one day while I was visiting from London." I could not help but smile at the memory of her black-clad form leaning over me as I awoke from my dreams that afternoon. I had thought her a vision of Queen Victoria for several seconds. Her chatelaine had swung silvery, reflecting the afternoon sun. Leaf shadows peppered her coiled hair. We had laughed and gossiped, debated and whispered, as two people do when they first meet and know instant friendship. She sat beside me under the oak like a great black swan, downy skirts adrift in the grass. Her wire-rimmed glasses were double miniatures of the land around us. I looked up at the potions master and my smile faded at the stern look on his features. "We grew quite close, and have been the best of friends ever since." I shrugged.

He did not seem satisfied. He paced the room's expanse yet again, then eventually retrieved the unlabeled bottle and refilled our cups, uncaring if I wanted more or not. He once more took a seat in the arm chair opposite me. He leaned back into its hollow, the arm holding his goblet running along one of the chair's arms carelessly. The fingers of his other hand once again curled about his lips in contemplation, its elbow propped up on the chair's sibling arm. A storm had begun to cross his brow, and his lips had tightened in response.

"Would you say she has changed much?" he asked, watching me closely.

"Changed?" I was puzzled. "She's grown. She has picked up an accent, though it does slip from time to time. Has become quite respected in . . . your circles." I looked to him. He seemed to be waiting for me to say more. "She has not changed; other than in the ways I have mentioned, no, not essentially."

"Why did she suggest you come to Hogwarts?" 

"She thought it a better venue in which I could work, rather than the university. She convinced Dumbledore of it."

"And tell me once more why it is you have chosen to come to Hogwarts," he said, his gaze narrowing.

"To further my work."

"The work you began at university? To define magic through quantum physics?"

"Yes, of course."

"And for no other reason?" he pressed.

"For no other reason," I replied, growing exasperated. I was finding the conversation ridiculous in the extreme. To my horror, I yawned. The day's activities began to weigh heavily on me.

He sat in thought, a look of perplexity on his features. The storm was darkening.

"I have a question for you," I spoke suddenly, interrupting his internal study. I had decided to take control and veer the discussion in a different direction.

His eyebrows rose. "Oh? Very well," he said with offhanded indifference. "You may ask."

"How is it that you know so much about science? Computers and the like?"

"It is in my interest to know," he said simply. His fingers clenched and unclenched.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It is as I have told you."

"Will you not elaborate a bit, just to humor me?"

"No." Slate-hard countenance.

I was disappointed. I had offered so much, had answered all of his questions, and he would answer none of mine. I wanted to erase my earlier confession, drown its memory in a sea of factual discussion and atomical whimsies. 

"Will you tell me if you intend on helping me to learn potions?" I asked.

"No." The answer was immediate and sharp.

"You do not intend on helping me?" I felt the disillusionment before I realized that it shouldn't have surprised me.

"I will not tell you if I intend to. I have not yet decided."

"Because of what I have said this evening." I said despondently.

He made no immediate answer, but studied me with a measure of what I took to be amusement. "If I help you, it is _because_ of what you have said," he at last replied. Fingers now drummed on the chair's arm.

I looked at him in surprise. His face wavered in front of me for a moment, blurring and then straightening once again. 

"I don't quite understand," I whispered. "What have I said that should ease your mind? Surely, if anything, it should steady your resolve against me."

His lips curled into a knowing smile and he watched the wine spin in his cup as he circled the goblet gently in his hand. The movement transfixed me; I found my eyelids dropping sluggishly, a fog creeping over my vision. I longed to sleep. I should excuse myself, I thought.

"I hope you will find that chair adequate," I heard his voice coo and rumble. My eyes snapped open, and I realized with embarrassment that I had nodded off.

"I'm sorry?" I managed. He was leaning over me now, the fabric of his coat brushing against me as he stretched out from his former place. My eyes closed again. His breath was on the exposed flesh above my gown, now his fingers wrapped themselves around the limp hand that held the goblet. The cup was plucked from my grasp and then, just as suddenly, he was gone. I lifted my lids sluggishly and saw him once again seated in his armchair. He held both goblets now, and was looking upon me with both mild curiosity and somewhat half-hearted accomplishment.

"I have given you a truth potion in your wine; I'm sure you understand my position," he said disinterestedly. "Sadly, Veritaserum typically causes one to fall into a deep sleep. I asked you if the chair would be adequate for you to rest awhile."

"But. . ." my mind hazed and flickered like an old movie reel as I tried desperately to concentrate on those thoughts that slept and renewed. "But you drank as well. I saw you. And you did not . . . did not answer _my_ inquiries." Blackness overcame me for a time, and when I blearily opened my eyes again he was kneeling before me and removing the parchments from my clenched fist. Even in this diminished position he filled my vision entirely. "You . . ." My words failed.

A leveled pause. "Yes. I took an antidote with my wine." He said this with infuriating triviality. He placed my now-empty hand upon my lap. He stood up and gazed down at me, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in amusement. His head was cocked slightly in contemplation. I noted that the storm had passed.

"You . . . you absolute _fiend_." I could think of no other word to spit at him. I thought it a ridiculous word, but there it was. At last the will to remain aware slipped from me, and his form grew smaller and more distant in my eye as a whirlwind of black unconsciousness circled and overwhelmed me.

"Quite," I heard him say in the emptiness of my mind. "Call me what you will, Miss Knight, if it consoles you. For you have no idea."

  
  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


Stars. Stars glittering and folding in a hanging sky; a bowl overhead, and we beneath it. Bone and blood and black hair and a bird's wing. _Why? _No answer. It was the sky that was beneath us and the world that hung upside-down like the belly of a fawn or the underside of an aged leaf. _Why?_ asked the cat as he held my hand. _Circles within circles_. The cat walked beside me. _This year? The next? It is manifold, all is manifold. _I looked above me. _It is the roof of a god's mouth._ I am lost, I said, and I do not know. The god's mouth sparkled and flashed. What did I find in the wood? _Misery sings on a breath,_ the cat replied. The sky is black and vacant and flaking, do you see? It is death. _What did you find in the wood?_ What is a king? I asked. And what is a queen? _There is no death for some, _said the cat. The equations sit like butterflies on furious red flowers. _I lay under trees and lambs and the teeth of gods, _said the cat_._ _What did you find in the wood?_ I am lost and I do not know. _The kings are not dead and the queens are scheming on their pale arched backs. _ _Black is the color of the god's mouth and the roof. _ What did I find in the wood? _What did you find in the wood?_ A dead light. I found a dead light. _Circles within circles,_ said the cat. _Black is the god's mouth, black is the mind, black is salvation. _The equations lift and fly and disappear. 

What did I find in the wood? 

I found a dead light.

  
  


I awoke with a start and knew not where I was. He was there. Oh yes, I remember. 

His collar was once again buttoned to his chin. He had closed himself from me. He held a hand to his temple and his eyes were locked on a spot across the room; his bottom lip was slightly swollen as if he had been chewing it thoughtfully. At my slight movement his eyes darted to me. 

He watched, and once again the volcanic fires glowed there. 

I felt ill, both physically and with the astute realization that he had planned the earlier charade of befriending me. I struggled to sit upright and my stomach lurched.

He said nothing.

Slowly I stood up, my head whirling and whining like an excited wheel, and I stumbled. He sprung forward like a crouching panther and caught my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into my collar bones and his scent rioting over me. Listlessly I slapped his hands from me and stepped away from him. Shame swept over me, waves upon waves of regret and anger, and floating above it all, a great sadness. 

He stood before me, cold and closed. 

"You shouldn't leave," he said at last.

I ignored the remark and looked about for my parchments. My dream had unnerved me, and I wanted more than anything to be alone, to be safe, to be among familiar things. 

"It had to be done." A ceratin note of bitterness colored his words.

I found the parchments laying on his desk, and I gathered them to me defensively. "I hope you have discovered what it was you sought," I mumbled softly. I refused to face him.

"Yes."

I nodded silently, then walked to the office door. As I opened it, his voice stopped me: "We shall begin tomorrow afternoon, Miss Knight. Bring what notes you have. There is much to cover."

I remained still for a breath, then continued through the door, closing it behind me with more force than I had intended.

As I climbed the stairs that led out of the dungeons, my thoughts began to shake off the effects of the potion and awake with the stir of a thousand bees. I was unsure of what had just transpired deep down in Severus Snape's office, but I was quite sure that I was skirting a pit of emotional and philosophical quicksand. 

The question was, on which ground did Severus Snape stand?


	8. Night Cap

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 

  


It is often said that a spirit will remain earthbound if it has left a particular task undone. About this I can only speculate and hope fervently that it is not true, else I will have a fine bit of time to work off in the end. But I do have a particular sense of responsibility where _A Dark Herbal_ is concerned. After all, I started it – couldn't I at least finish it? And believe me, I wondered that same thing over these past few months. You'll notice that chapter seven was posted sometime in February. It is, by my calendar, now July. So what have I been doing with myself, you may ask? Fair enough question. To put it simply, I moved. Not in a down-the-street or into-the-next-county sort of way, but in a from-a-desert-city-across-a-vast-ocean-into-the-bustling-crowds-of-London way. Tack onto that some travels into Europe and the inevitable breakdown of the mind machine, and you'll know why I sat for some weeks in front of the computer with a dazed look and a limp lower jaw. The mind machine just, well, conked out. It gets rusty, you know. I hadn't oiled the gears in months, and as a result the brain-place had some corrosion, rampant weeds, and I think a slow leak from the ceiling. 

I have many to thank for restoring the place, not least of which are Rickfan37, Superwitch, Arachne's Child, Gwenn, white raven, the Café, Synchestra Duende, and J.K. Rowling,who finally got book 5 out to us (I understand, really I do.) Above all, thanks to everyone who has written emails asking me if I had fallen off the planet or likewise had my head up my arse, and have been waiting patiently for this chapter. I love you guys.

  
  


TSHNS

  
  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Chapter Eight – _Night Cap_

  
  
  
  
  


It wasn't because of my anger that I did not meet with the potions master the following day. It was because of my nettled and red-infested humiliation. It plotted as I slept the night of the Veriterserum, ravenous and milky-eyed, spinning and growing like a tapeworm, until I was immobilized by it. For hours I sat in the morning light and dissected the meeting with Snape, exploring the motives and meanings behind the potion master's performance, and still it made little sense to me. Why the unusual interest in Octavia, in particular? I chewed my pencil engagingly. "Hmmm," I hummed to the wooden table. "Why indeed?" And the sounds lifted and dispersed, for they knew when it was best to depart. Around and around the questions flitted like finches, nervous and quick.

Press my face into my hot palms and wonder. To go, to stay, to struggle, to yield? Did Severus Snape wonder as I wonder now? Did he too ponder the reasons of things? Certainly. 

I thought on him and his phrases again. He was right about me, of course. I was in an altogether unfamiliar and strange world, and it was slowly preying upon me, this predator, this great unknown. What was it to live in a land of The Possible? Where rules and absolutes could be bent, manipulated, disposed of? What a lark. I thought of my mother and her play. Ah, if I had only listened with a child's ear and had believed the unbelievable. Perhaps those delicate fancies, if absorbed, would have produced a far less cynical being; a woman who walked the line of the fantastic rather than the line of reason. But those thoughts were really too late to consider, for here I was. 

And what was Severus Snape? A man? A demigod? A villain? And what was he to me, with his proud and cold visage, his calculated and suspicious words? I found that I thought of him in mythical terms: Loki, Azrael, Heathcliff, Oberon. And yet I knew these labels did little to reveal his design to me. They only served to empower him in my eyes, and by all accounts were inflated and unrealistic. And I could not afford to lose my mind. Not now. Ah, I must think on it no longer. My soul hurt.

He would just have to wait.

The better part of a fortnight passed with little interruption. I heard nothing from the potions master, which suited me just fine, and when I did leave my suite for any length of time he was blessedly absent from my path. I received letters from both Remus and Octavia, and was sorely confused at the bites I gained from their carriers as I unraveled the missives from their legs with all the grace and practice of an epileptic ballerina. I penned two replies off in haste, assuring that all was well, and placated the letter-bearers with several tea crackers before sending them on their way. 

My mornings were spent roaming the grounds and my evenings in the vast Hogwarts library, pouring over yellowed and flaking manuscripts by the light of a sputtering, irksome candle. And I learned nothing from them. I fairly shook with frustration. When the thin light of the moon fell upon a particular grained spot of the wooden table, I gathered both my parchment and quill and went to bed with a substantial sigh.

Inevitably, after weeks of this schedule, I became rather familiar with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, at least to the extent that I did not get lost half so often. In my wanderings I once came across a rugged, unsophisticated hut that squatted in the midday sun like a splintered troll and was either rustically alluring or odious, depending upon the sort of person you were. I put my ear towards the odd shape. No sound, save the gentle creaking of wooden eaves when a brusque breeze raked through them. I crept in (what I thought of as) proficient and wolf-like stealth around and around the mass, playing closer and closer, until at last my fingers curled around a sill and I could see beyond the dirtied glass and through a sliver of opened curtain. Well, honestly, it _was_ rather provincial. Burnished pots and dried plants and animal hides and various tools were woven into its space like a magpie's nest. A soot-blackened fireplace yawned cavernously, vestiges of its breath staining the brickwork around it. Above the mantelpiece perched a rifle and horn. A mud-soled boot –a _giant_ boot – lay on the gritty grass-littered floor with its mate nowhere in sight. I couldn't see anything more, and stepped down into the dirt behind the hut. 

Not far away, perhaps twenty of my steps, the forest sprung up tall and dense, as though an invisible barrier separated it from the school grounds. I eyed it with uncertain curiosity. I had heard nothing of it, and had only seen it from a distance. Now as I stood in front of its veritable enormity, I only began to conceive of its depths. The tall trees transformed the air into something ancient and secretly dangerous – even the earthen smell coming out from the base of their trunks breezed by me with a particular dark shiftiness. It caused me to shrink back a bit, and then in a kind of chagrined defiance I brushed myself off and scowled in challenge into its wooded darkness for several moments before snorting in a most appeased, if not altogether unbecoming way. I stomped back up the hill to the castle.

It was during the following week – although I can't be entirely sure – that this leisurely, somewhat unfruitful routine saw the return of the potions master. I had spent several afternoons bent like a jeweler over my notes, searching for imperfections, calibrating their worth, tossing out those that were beyond saving. It was a tiresome business. And it was made all the more tiresome by the inescapable fact that I was, sooner or later, going to have to darken Severus Snape's doorstep with notes in hand and a certain patient humility drawn all over my face. So there it was, and I knew at once that I wanted to get it over with. I stood with tired conviction and gathered my notes to me. I listened for an inner voice to dissuade me, but it did not come. So I was truly alone, then. 

Down into the belly of stone I went, passing through the broad stripes of golden sunlight that bled through the narrow windows. Smells condensed within the dampness, growing musky and loud. Sunlight gave way to torchlight, and soon that familiar corridor spread out before me as though in a cock-eyed dream. A part of me thrilled at the sight. 

He was at his desk, a quill in his right hand softly scratching away in the silence. He was once again divested of his robes, but was not in the least diminished by their absence.

Upon my entrance he continued to scribble upon his parchment, fantastically disregarding me, until at last, with a final rereading of his work, he set the quill down and took me in with his gaze. 

"Ah, and so she returns."

I didn't miss the mocking tone of his words. Of course I didn't. I took several steps forward and tried to look disdainfully apologetic, as though I understood and was indeed sorry that his extraordinary bigheadedness was beyond his control. 

"Yes, well, the desire for knowledge is a rather . . . fervent master," I offered. My chin lifted of its own accord, perhaps in preparation of the sarcastic verbal deluge I was certain I was about to experience.

His eyes swept over me, over my notes in hand. "Indeed. That, Miss Knight, is perhaps one truth upon which we can both agree." He stood up and made his way toward me, gesturing at an unoccupied chair at one of the long tables. "By all means, do make yourself comfortable."

I was pleased that he made no remark about that long-ago evening's activities, though was disappointed at his lack of - what I should have thought of as - obvious and gentlemanly guilt. I was also surprised to find him so genuinely accommodating; he seemed to shift his focus to a higher point, and his countenance displayed only authentic thoughtfulness. It was clear to me that, at least for the time being, we were to act as though our last night together had never occurred.

"Before we begin," he said, "I want to make sure that you agree with the practice of studying purely empirical evidence. I realize that it is not common in your line of study, as a great deal of it institutes theory alone, but for potions, it is imperative. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course," I managed.

"Good. I will go into molecular chemical structure soon enough, but I think it highly important that you realize the weight of the subject from the very beginning."

I swallowed. What was he about? 

"Poisons," he murmured softly, "are not only integral to potions, but are above all entirely exempt from the need of magic in their ultimate outcome. More complex poisons, however, _do_ require a bit of . . .shall we say, flavoring, with magic if one wishes to conduct more. . . imaginative results." 

He swiftly pulled a chair close to me and settled mere inches from my person. The sound of the chair's legs as it scraped against the stone floor did little to ease my mind, now run riot with his presence. "For example, if I wanted a poison to work at a specific time of day, or perhaps induce a victim to experience certain . . . feelings or visions as the poison worked within his or her blood, I would be inclined to use magic to that effect." His breath reached my ear, and the wisps of hair decorating my lower temple bowed gently to his voice. He paused and I stared vacantly ahead, my chest rising and falling sparrow-like. After several loaded seconds, during which I felt his gaze trip over my face and neck, he continued: "I will give you a few basic facts about poisons before we move into their chemical aspects." I sensed rather than saw him rise from the chair and cross his arms in front of his chest. "Poisons are products of animal, mineral, and plant alike. And – I cannot stress this point enough – they can be either friend . . ." he leaned forward and I saw his fingers wave and curl under the edge of the desk like white coral, "or foe. The nightshade that is drunk in a medical concoction can heal one of several maladies, but if too much is ingested it may very well end in death. Poison is not about property, Miss Knight. It is entirely about _quantity_. Every possible thing taken into the human body, in excess, will eventually result in death." He paused heavily to let that sink in, then continued with a casual wave of his hand. "And so the question to ask is, in what _situation_ does a substance act as a poison?"

He walked slowly over to a nearby classroom wall, perusing the many-colored glass vials and jars that stood in line like sinister jeweled soldiers. "And method of entry, of course. How a poison _penetrates_ a victim's body is very important. For example. . ." he lazily drew his finger along the clear surfaces of the bottles until it ceased upon a glass box whose label I could not read. It looked as though it simply held bits of twig and limb. He drew this down from the shelf along with a smaller and empty unlabeled mason jar. "Let us take the venom of a serpent."

Approaching the desk, he once again drew the chair near me and casually set the jar upon the desk's surface and the box upon the floor between his legs so that it was concealed. "Give me your hand Miss Knight."

I hesitated, then relinquished my fingers to his hold. He did not dwell everlong on my hand, but instead placed it quickly and unceremoniously upon the desk's surface. And then, with one hand holding my palm captive, he reached down into the box at his feet. The heat of his flesh caused my skin to flush and rear in upon itself; I could feel the strength flowing through him and I experienced a burst of panic. I did not like being held captive under physical might - it made me all too aware of my own female powerlessness. As I contemplated pulling away, I saw a diamond-shaped serpentine head appear above the wood of the desk's surface, the potion master's marble-white fingers wrapped delicately about its skull. I heard my own gasp, and then I strove in earnest to pull my hand free from his grip.

"Shhhh," he whispered in a deep, melodic tone, and I wondered whether he sought to calm me or the serpent. He held my palm fast.

What happened next could only have fallen within a fraction of a breath: the fingers securing the serpent's head opened and thrummed the skull gently; the serpent, in response, irately barred its fangs and searched blindly for a victim. Unable to fathom my circumstance, I watched dumbly as my hand was brought into its sight and the needle-like fangs sunk into the flesh between my thumb and index finger, sending a painful nerve-shock up my arm and neck. Enraged, I cried out and fought to pull my hand away— yet he held it fast. 

"Do not move," he hissed at me and, dazed and shocked, I forced myself to remain still. He gently pulled the serpent's fangs free from my flesh and placed the beast lovingly back into the glass box at his feet and secured the breathing lid. He then ran his thumb over the two points of entry, which were growing increasingly inflamed, and I gaped at him. My mind was a hurricane of emotions: disbelief, fear, anger, confusion. I knew that if he indeed wanted to harm me it would have been all too easy to do in another capacity. And yet, was this revenge? Was I allowing it to happen so . . . unchallenged, so docilely? 

"Shhhhh," he murmured again in strange comfort. "Think as a scientist, Miss Knight. It's what you're best at, after all. What do you feel? What is happening?" His thumb continued to circle the two small points gently, and soon I felt an odd sensation.

"I. . . it feels like a slight prickling sensation," I whispered. "It is centralized at the bite itself, but I can feel it starting to move through the muscles running up my forearm, into my joints." I closed my eyes and concentrated on the throbbing in my flesh, the beginnings of a tickling paralysis in my fingers. "I can't feel my lower hand. There is a small and sharp pain working its way up my fingers and wrist. My god, it is quick." I began to shiver. I opened my eyes and looked at him with horror. "What have you done?"

His lips pulled into a line of distaste. "Do you not trust me, Miss Knight?" 

I remained silent, my mouth clamped in a sequence of pain and confusion, as he continued to absently stroke the wounds. He looked upon them gently, almost reverently.

"You are suffering from a lethal dose of natural poison," he whispered. "You will be dead within ten minutes. The serpent's venom will eventually work its way into your nervous system, seizing your muscles. Including your heart." His black eyes pierced me suddenly. "You do have a heart, do you not, Miss Knight? We could wait and see."

"How dare you!" I snapped. "You make shameless remarks after telling me I have but only minutes to live? You are no scientist. You're a monster!" With my free hand I made to wrench his fingers from my captive wrist, but his other hand caught mine easily and held it fast.

His mouth curled slightly. He then brought my hand to his lips and, as I watched, frightened beyond reason, he placed his lips between my fingers and on the wound itself. I felt his mouth close upon me, his warm tongue slowly circling the inflamed skin like a velvet pulse, searching out the punctures. His lips drew tightly upon the tiny wounds, his tongue coaxing me, drawing upon me, encouraging my flesh to succumb. I felt my entire body flush with heat, and my eyes closed. _So this was death_, I briefly thought. _A warm, electric sleep_. _If only I had known!_

His lips pulled upon me mercilessly, hotly, almost painfully, and just as suddenly they were gone. My eyes opened a fraction to see him lift the mason jar to his mouth and spit lightly, then return to me. He repeated this several times, until my creeping thoughts were somewhat clear and I had an understanding of what had just transpired. He had, as I had read in several journals and seen in some hokey Hollywood films, cleansed me of the serpent's poison by means of removing the toxin orally. I sat dumfounded, allowing him to continue holding my palm. He was looking at me oddly, smokey-eyed and alert. 

I shivered then. I didn't care if it seemed foolish. He brushed his fingers ever so lightly on mine in the silence, almost accidentally. It seemed like minutes passed as the quiet in the room grew, vibrating and thickening. And yet neither of us moved. My heartbeat, already quickened to nearly exploding, actually went up a notch. Flushed and pulsating, I lifted my eyes to his. Whatever he saw there caused him to flinch. It was a subtle movement, almost invisible, but I caught it. The furrow deepened between his brows and, pulling a corner of his lips back into his typical frown of disgust, he let my hand free and stood up.

"And so," he said as he once again crossed his arms and walked around the front of the desk, "what is it that I have just demonstrated regarding poison?" He stopped and waited for me to answer, which of course I couldn't do at all. He sighed dramatically and continued his walking. I could see what a terror he must be in the classroom. Instinctually I tried to make myself smaller, though there were no other students in the classroom behind which to hide. He unlocked his arms and, placing his hands on the desk, leaned forward menacingly. 

"Please do not tell me, Miss Knight, that I went through the trouble of angering a snake and potentially endangering myself so that you could learn nothing from it."

Well, that did it.

I shook myself from my trance and had to press my fingernails deeply into my palms to keep from erupting in a fit of fury.

"I _suppose_," I replied through clenched teeth, "you were attempting to demonstrate the active properties of poison by means of entry." I fairly spat the words out.

A fractional smile crossed his lips then disappeared as he straightened up and resumed his walking. 

"Very good, Miss Knight," (I bristled). "Tell me then, why is it that the poison had an effect on you such as it did, and why did I not experience that same effect?" Up rose the eyebrow.

"Obviously, the chemical makeup of the toxin broke down upon interacting with digestive fluids," I said. "It could not sustain its molecular structure in the face of so much . . ." --I caught his eye and held it– "bile."

He kept my gaze for only a second before resuming: "And yet many other poisons are active _only_ in the digestive tract. Some merely have to brush against your skin to gain access. Some take seconds to kill, some take hours, days. They can be dropped into wine or woven into a glove. And that is if magic is _not_ a factor. I doubt I need to expand upon situations where magic is implemented. Rest assured that the use of magic makes the whole business far less stable, if not entirely ungovernable. When one mixes magic with poisons, it can be..." he drifted off in a sudden thought, then seemed to shake himself free. "Yes. And so we will then study the molecular structure of poisons for a brief time, until you feel comfortable with them, if there is ever comfort in such knowledge."

I nodded, feeling at last as though I would gain some ground in my quest, some small bit of truth. I noticed that the punctures on my hand were gradually abating, though still sore. He saw me gazing at them.

"The wounds should close up quickly, perhaps overnight. I will make you aware of when I have time for further study, Miss Knight."

I looked up at him and realized he was dismissing me. He seemed preoccupied, lost in thought. His hands were thrumming and closing at his sides, a sign that he was no longer available for discussion and that he had moved on to more pressing matters in his mind.

I gathered my notes, to which I blandly noticed I hadn't added a word since coming down to the dungeon, and with an odd sense of accomplishment I returned to my rooms.

I didn't have a drop of brandy that night.


	9. Wormwood

Chapter Nine: _Wormwood_

  
  
  


___Oh she looked out of the window_

_As white as any milk_

_But he looked in the window_

_As black as any silk_

_Then she became a duck_

_A duck all on the stream_

_And he became a water dog _

_And fetched her back again_

_Then she became a hare_

_A hare all on the plain_

_And he became a greyhound dog_

_And fetched her back again_

_Then she became a fly_

_A fly all in the air_

_And he became a spider_

_And fetched her to his lair_

_And she became a corpse_

_A corpse all in the ground_

_And he became the cold gray clay_

_And smothered her all around _

(Excerpted from the Current 93/Traditional song, 'Oh Coal Black Smith') 

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


I should say here that Katrina Dratch walked with a slight limp. She also had an unmeditated, if not bemusing, habit of exhaling through her teeth, which I discovered when she cornered me in the library one draughty afternoon. 

  


The temperamental sun was setting and its pink and enflamed light splashed across the bookcases in kaleidoscopic fury. I was deep in the study of an old tome I had found on fourteenth-century poisons and was scribbling notes with a quill whose tip had partially split earlier. I was lost in the sounds it made, a _scritchity-scritchity-scratch_ that echoed between the aisles and induced a sort of tempo for my thoughts. I had just cursed softly at clumsily smearing an entire paragraph and was reaching for the blotting paper when I heard a throat cleared nearby.

I looked up and saw a pretty, if somewhat petulant, face above me, and I recalled it immediately. A memory of a peach-hued rosebud came to mind; soft but tightly closed, and it frowned at me across the Great Hall table with puckered lips. 

"Miss Knight? I'd like to have a word, if I may." 

"Oh," I said, "of course." I pushed my notes aside and the blonde woman gave a thin smile and lowered herself into a seat, casting a skeptical look at my blotchy, erratic parchments.

"Working, I see?" Her sarcasm was ill disguised, and I do not consider myself terribly dense.

I forced a smile.

"I am, yes. Well, in a manner of speaking." I watched her eyebrows rise in subtle doubt, and she reached a rosy hand over for the book I had been studying.

"Ah, Nicodemus il Saggio." She leafed through the pages, and her eyes ran over the illuminated print. "A decent monk and healer for his time, I suppose. Not too complex. Perfect reading for first-years and squibs, _I_ think." Her breath whistled out from between her teeth.

Well, at least she did not waste her time on pleasantries. If I had any doubt that she had disliked me from that very first night in the Great Hall when I had disrupted her conversation with Severus Snape, they were abruptly put to rest. 

"Ah. And you are . . .?" I offered flatly.

"I'm Katrina. Katrina Dratch." 

She stuck her small hand out and I grasped it, though it merely lay in my palm, cold and motionless, when I shook it. I let it go and then I, too, knew instant dislike. Nonetheless, I sought to employ a bit of affability.

"I'm Da—"

"I know who you are," she interrupted.

"I see." I sat up and squared my shoulders. "What can I do for you, Miss Dratch?"

Her eyes skirted over my notes.

"I understand that you have enlisted Professor Snape's help in your study of potion properties." She did not meet my eyes.

"Well, _enlist_ isn't quite an accurate description," I replied. "But he has offered to tutor me a bit, yes."

"And has Professor Snape told you anything with regard to his personal . . . ambitions?"

"Personal ambitions? I don't quite follow you."

"What he does when he is not teaching?" Her finger worried a small bit of the blotting paper.

"Uh, no. No, he hasn't said anything to me of his private life, if that's what you mean," I said. "And I haven't asked him anything, for that matter," I added hastily. 

She nodded, and her lips again pursed. There was something obscene in the movement, something mesmerizing and yet wholly vulgar. "He's a very important man, Miss Knight. More important than you realize, I think. For what it's worth, he really doesn't have the time for tutoring and such. You see, he has commitments to other people." Her eyes now lifted and locked fiercely on mine. "And as much as it may be beneficial for you to perhaps learn from an expert in the field, I'm afraid it wouldn't be . . . _prudent_ for Severus Snape to waste what little free time he has." Her voice then lowered in what I took to be menace. "You seem an astute woman, Miss Knight. In fact, I'm counting on your astuteness to remove yourself from the situation. Immediately."

"I see." I opened my hands in question. "And why doesn't Professor Snape himself tell me this? Surely, if I am proving detrimental to his . . . _ambitions_, he wouldn't hesitate to make me aware of the fact." 

We eyed each other felinely across the table, and she shrugged.

"Professor Snape is far too gentlemanly (I choked down a cough) to disappoint a person in need of his instruction. But I assure you that he would be grateful for your understanding of his other obligations."

I laughed then. I knew it was appalling under the circumstances, but then, so too where a great many things I had recently experienced and, moreover, I didn't care. I was, despite myself, entirely amused. I cleared my throat.

"Come now, Miss Dratch," I grinned. "We're adults here, aren't we? I assure you, my meetings with Professor Snape are strictly educational. If I had known you would take our sessions so personally, so . . . well, territorially, I wouldn't—"

"You haven't the faintest idea what I feel, Miss Knight," she snapped. "It was my understanding that you were here to study quantum mechanics. Potions do not fall into that category, despite what your half-witted theories may state. Listen to what I am saying: you are wasting your time with Professor Snape. It is _that_ simple." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Perhaps you should, in fact, reconsider staying here at Hogwarts. You wouldn't want anything unforeseen to . . . happen that may hinder your work now, would you?" 

Ah. So there it was. Even though it had been delivered in a ridiculously clichéd manner, the threat was nonetheless perfectly legitimate. In a way I was slightly surprised at the ferocity Severus Snape could elicit in his . . . what? Mistresses? Romantic interests? For surely that is what Katrina Dratch was to him. Alas, the human sisterhood was all too readily disposed of when a man was at the heart of things. I shook my head. Such a sad state of affairs, really it was. And yet . . . 

"Well, I do appreciate your concern, Miss Dratch," I said evenly. "But I really do feel that if Professor Snape deems it unwise to continue he will tell me so himself." I gave a tight smile and folded my hands on the table before me, signaling the end of our discussion.

Katrina Dratch didn't even blink. Instead, she sighed and picked up my resting quill with tiny, perfect fingers.

"Do you know what it is that I do here at Hogwarts, Miss Knight?" she asked, watching her fingers with lazy interest as the quill shifted and twirled between them.

"I'm afraid I haven't any idea. It hasn't been a concern of mine, to be perfectly honest."

"Yes, well, I am a teacher here, Miss Knight. I teach magical theory."

"I see. How utterly delightful for you." 

She pressed her lips together in a thin smile of acknowledgement. "I teach advanced first-years, you know, besides the older students. Some students can take their OWLs early, if they are proficient in a subject."

I raised my eyebrows in polite, if insincere, interest.

"So you can imagine my surprise to see that one Penelope Knight has been scheduled into my advanced class this fall."

My breath caught sharply, and the first dustings of understanding swirled into lurid focus. I had a sudden urge to reach out, snatch my quill from her hand, and poke it into one of her luminous violet eyes. Oh, she was a clever one, Katrina Dratch.

"Well, I can certainly imagine how devastated a student would be if he or she were unable to take an OWL due to poor grades." Her face fell into a mockery of sadness.

"You wouldn't dare . . ." I whispered.

"Oh but I would, Miss Knight. And I _will_, if necessary." She pressed the point of the quill into the table's wood, lodging it in a small crack in the surface. "I have a particular investment in Severus Snape, you see, and I am willing to take any action in my power to protect that investment." Her eyes burned with challenge. "Have I made myself clear, Miss Knight?"

Various possibilities shot lickety-split through my mind: I could agree and then continue my sessions with the potions master secretly; I could confront Severus Snape and demand that he call off his overly protective female watchdog; I could simply call her bluff and wait until Penelope, crestfallen, arrived in my rooms with confused tears and murmurings of failure; I could, I supposed, even leave Hogwarts and never look back. I sighed. Not one seemed particularly appealing.

I clamped my jaw and glared at her with perfect loathing. "Crystal."

Her teeth flashed brilliantly and with a _snap_ the quill tip broke off onto the table.

"Capital. I'm so glad we had this talk, Miss Knight." She pushed her chair back and stood up, then unceremoniously tossed my ruined quill onto the table. "You should see about a new quill. They are so annoyingly fragile, aren't they?"

With a final look of defiant delight she walked off, her limp only slightly detectable beneath her lavender gown, and I fought the desperate compulsion to lunge, to strike down, to completely and entirely decimate. 

Instead I sat for some time and stared stonily out at the raging sunset, working out scenes of quiet revenge while rubbing the tips of my fingers together in agitated frustration. I saw no option but to give in to Katrina Dratch's demands.

For now, I told myself. For now.

  
  
  


Octavia surprised me in my rooms the next morning. Taffeta song swished me out of a deep slumber, and I blearily opened my eyes to the sight of her matronly form pouring tea out into two china cups. When she heard my shifting she looked up and eyed me reproachfully.

"You didn't lock your door."

"Hrmm?" I mumbled as I rubbed my hand over my eyelids. "Oh. Sorry. I must have forgotten."

"Yes, well, do try to remember in the future. Hogwarts is a large place, and one never knows what sorts of unwanted guests could decide to pay a visit." She held a cup out, which I took as I sat up amongst the bed pillows. 

"When did you get back?" I asked. 

"Sometime last night." She took a seat in one of the armchairs. "And you are still here, I'm pleased to see. Things must be going well."

I immediately wanted to tell her of my encounter with Katrina Dratch, but after some thought decided against it. I preferred to fight my battles alone. I then considered recounting my episode with the potions master and the snake venom, but that too was quickly dismissed. Octavia seemed somewhat preoccupied, if not irritated, and I knew that information would only serve to darken her mood. Instead I nodded blandly.

"Yes, yes. Things are going very well."

She looked at me for a moment, and I could see she was not entirely convinced. It was searing, her gaze, and I shrunk under its severity. 

It was then I noticed the bruise.

"What's happened to your neck?" I asked, perplexed. The mark, purplish-red and jagged, peeked just above her high-necked Victorian collar, and she rapidly plucked the fabric between her fingers and hitched it higher in a sudden attempt to conceal it.

"It's nothing, really."

"What do you mean, 'nothing'? It looks positively livid. Let me have a look."

"No. It's none of your concern."

"None of my. . .Octavia, what have you been doing while you were away? Your letter was, well, rather perfunctory." I rose from the bed and took a step towards her.

"I had some meetings to attend to," she said hastily. "Some. . . _personal_ meetings." She clamped a hand to her neck and looked away, embarrassed. It was then I understood.

"Why, Octavia Blackchurch! You old witch, 'personal meetings' indeed. My goodness, I haven't seen one of those since secondary school." I grinned and clucked chidingly under my breath.

"Yes, well, I would be very grateful if you didn't mention it to anyone," she said morosely.

"Of course I wouldn't!" I said, pressing a hand to my heart and pretending insult. Then a thought arose: "It wasn't . . . Lupin?!"

Her scowl was perfectly violent. "Don't be absurd. Could we change the subject, if you wouldn't mind? I find it very distasteful to be the brunt of school-girlish humor."

"Oh, very well," I conceded. I looked at her sideways from under my lowered lids. "But I have to admit some hurt at not knowing about this before now. And to think all this time I believed you were a right old prude."

"Drink your goddamn tea before I throw a voodoo curse your way that would curl Marie Laveau's hair, you nosey cow," she grumbled into her cup.

Ah. That was more like it. 

I drank the rest of my tea cheerfully.

  
  


The rest of the week was made up of halcyon days of bright summer sun, lakeside breezes, and lazy, succulent sleep. Katrina Dratch kept her distance, and Severus Snape his. Although I would receive a brief glance from those ebony eyes during dinner in the Great Hall, he never approached, never questioned my sudden removal from his scheduled presence, and seemed to be entirely unconcerned with the sudden drop of interest I showed in potions. I wondered if he in fact was aware of the conversation I had with Katrina Dratch, then decided it didn't matter one way or the other. My abrupt discontinuation of our sessions hadn't moved him to speak with me, and therein I saw my importance, hurtful as it was.   
I found myself looking forward to Remus Lupin's return, and surprised myself late at night when my thoughts tripped fondly over him. He was a gentle man, a kind man. Such were rare jewels in the ragged crown of men, I knew, and though I felt a certain aching when I thought on the potions master, I would once again return to Remus and my thoughts were soothed. I of course did not tell Octavia of these fancies. She had seemed distant her first few days back at Hogwarts, but then, like a moth tasting the first joy of its wingspan, she blossomed into her usual radiance and good humor. In a small way I was glad of the hindrance Katrina Dratch had put before me, since I could not envision any explanation solid enough to have Octavia's blessings where meetings with Severus Snape were concerned. As it was, she seemed intent to laud Remus's good traits like a snake-oil salesman. And another name passed her lips once or twice: Lucius Malfoy. 

I had heard the Malfoy name in my parents' conversations, but had the proclivity to let it pass unheeded through the halls of my mind. I knew nothing of him save that he was from very old wizarding stock, and that in itself meant little to me. Muggles, squibs, purebloods – the terms were laughable in the face of logical thought, yet, despite it all, it had stung when Katrina Dratch had flung _squib_ at me. It felt . . . shameful, though I told myself it was merely the power of a word and nothing more. 

Like a creeping sickness, the power of that word ate at my bones, and eventually I decided to do further research into such things. When my day's studying was through, I would lose myself in some borrowed library books: _Hogwarts, a History_; _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Lord_; _Wizards, Witches, and Their World_; and _The Beginner's Guide to Who's Who in Wizardry Today_. Tucked up in my nightgown, I would pull one of these leather-bound tomes to me and pour over them while I sipped sweetened absinthe, making occasional notes or sketching out a rough image of a famous face. I recognized several individuals from their portraits along the stairwells, and was shocked to see some familiar faces in _The Beginner's Guide to Who's Who in Wizardry Today_. Dumbledore had an entire chapter dedicated to his exploits. I quickly turned to the middle of the index and scanned the names. There was Lestrange, Lupin, Lockhart, Macnair, McGonagall, Malfoy, Oglethorpe, Pettigrew, Potter, Riddle, Shingleton . . . Snape. Severus Snape. I breathlessly turned to page 564 and there, glaring stoically from the page, was a picture of the potions master. Unlike the other wizarding pictures, Severus Snape did not wave or smile, but merely glowered from within the frame. My eyes dropped to the accompanying print and I read of his family, his education at Hogwarts, his – I stopped suddenly when I came upon his association with the being called Voldemort, and a icy chill shot through my intestines. How could this be? I breathed heavily as I endeavored to read the rest of the paragraph, shocked beyond reason to find that Severus Snape had once been a part of the group called Death Eaters, who –

There was a knock at the door.

I guiltily closed the book and hid it with the others under the seat cushion before pulling a silk robe over me and making my way to the door. I stood quietly, undecided, with my hand on the doorknob. I thought for a brief moment of asking who it was, but quickly realized that wasn't a wise thing to do were I to pretend I was not in my chambers. While I contemplated my actions, the knock sounded again and this time it was much louder. And then I remembered that Octavia had promised to visit me that night with some books from the restricted section of the library. Smiling with relief, I pulled the door open.

Severus Snape stood before me, his arms crossed and his manner rigid. 

"Miss Knight. I hope I'm not interrupting."

I took a step back and brought my fingers to the throat of my robe in an attempt to close the garment up like a death shroud around me. Did he _know_ I had been reading about him? But the man had the timing of the devil himself. 

He waited for me to answer, and when I simply stood in the doorway and fumbled over words, he gave a sardonic eye roll and his mouth hitched up in irritation. 

"Do you have a moment?" he asked, and impatience dripped from every word.

I swallowed my mumblings and stood back, gesturing him into my rooms and feeling not at all at ease with the unfolding situation. 

He stepped across the threshold and eyed the surroundings disinterestedly, then caught a glimpse of the absinthe glass and spoon.

"I see I am in fact interrupting you." 

And to this I said nothing, because there was in fact a degree of understanding that came with drinking absinthe; the black-clothed man before me could not possibly regard it in the same way as I. I merely took a seat in a chair before the hearth and stared at the mentioned instruments of indulgence, perhaps hoping they would disintegrate into thin air, I didn't know.

He took up the spoon and regarded it. "So very Rimbaud." And I did not know if he meant it as an insult or if he said it with a certain intellectual longing. "An unusual spoon. This eye in the center, what does it represent?"

"The ability to see things, to know of things only when under its influence." I said quietly. "A smell of petroleum prevails throughout," I smiled. 

"I beg your pardon?"

"There once was a man who claimed that he knew the secret of the universe when he was under the influence of laughing gas. But upon coming to, he could never remember it. So as an experiment, a scientist managed to get him to write down the secret in the midst of his stupor. When at last his head cleared, the man ran to see what it was he had written down, and upon the paper he had written 'A smell of petroleum prevails throughout'." 

"So like a muggle," he replied. He placed the spoon upon the glass. "Van Gogh was driven mad by it, so they say." 

"He overindulged. Besides, you cannot but grant he created great works."

"That is a matter of opinion, naturally. Do you sweeten it?"

"With sugar, yes. I am surprised you are familiar with the process."

At this he gave me a sour look and took a seat in the chair opposite. "I study potions, Miss Knight, or have you forgotten? Wormwood is a common enough element. Believe me when I say that I can brew far headier and more potent concoctions than a poor poet's green muse." 

The night had been too warm for a fire, and so I had opened a casement window earlier that evening. The smell of pine now drifted through the space of the room, along with other, less familiar scents: clove, sandalwood, sweetgrass. Curling just beneath these was the anise of the absinthe rising vaporously from its glass. 

As though sensing my thoughts, the potions master nodded at the dark green liquid. "Show me."

I hesitated, but at his prompting I removed the lid of the sugar bowl and took out a cube, then placed it delicately upon the center of the silver eye embossed on the surface of the spoon. I reached for the nearby pitcher of water, but he stopped me. 

"Wait." His long fingers wrapped around the spoon's handle and, pulling it out from its place, allowed the cube to drop into the depths of the absinthe beneath.

"What are—" He silenced me with a look, then lifted the now green cube with the spoon and centered it once again. From within his robes he took out an ebony-handled stick—his wand, I realized – and with a murmur the cube burst into blue and orange flame. Mesmerized, I watched as the flames licked around the sweetened mass, sizzling and melting it; watched as blue droplets of fire fell into the liquid below; watched as Severus Snape regarded it all with a calm knowing.

When the sugar cube had evaporated to his content, he motioned for the water to be poured, then returned the wand to his robes and reclined once again in the chair. 

I removed the spoon and poured the cold water into the glass, then watched as the emerald liquid swirled and mixed like Grecian marble before settling on a pale chartreuse. I offered the glass to him but he refused.

"I would much prefer to simply watch, if that is acceptable."

"Oh."

I raised the glass self-consciously and took a sip. He watched me darkly, the hint of a smile on his lips.

"Are you sure you don't--"

"Quite."

I nestled further into the chair, wishing I were invisible, and felt the sharp jab of the books hidden beneath. And then I remembered what it was I had been reading, and my heart lurched forward into a rapid flutter.

"Would you care for some brandy, perhaps? A scotch?" The words were high in my throat and I fought in vain to keep the panic out of my voice. A Death Eater. Sitting across from me and watching me and smoldering like the fires of the underworld. 

"No. Thank you. I'm here to discuss something that troubles me."

"Oh yes?" I asked with all the innocence I could muster. I took another sip and raised my eyebrows expectantly at him.

"I would like very much to know why you no longer seem interested in learning potions."

Although for more than a week I had hoped--nay, prayed, that this question would eventually fall from his lips, I found that I actually had no response prepared. I was entirely at a loss for words. Despite the growing languidness in both my body and mind as the absinthe settled into my blood, an image of Katrina Dratch and her narrowed eyes and puckered rose mouth appeared in vibrant detail before me. I should tell him, I thought. I should tell him what a wretched creature it is on which he has decided to lavish his affections, to – dare I say – care for, to take to his bed. Just as quickly another cloud of thoughts drifted across my mind's landscape: what would I expect of a Death Eater? Surely he takes to his bed that with which he is familiar, be it loathsome or horrid or ethically deformed. Why would I want any part of that grotesque union in any way? Am I mad? What do I care what Severus Snape does or of the company he keeps? He and Katrina, as far as I could discern, deserved each other.

I leveled my gaze on him and said evenly: "I have since realized that my purposes have no use for potions."

"Ah." His expression did not change, did not reflect a picture of surprise. His hands lay at the ends of the chair's arms noncommittally. "How, I wonder, have you come to such a conclusion?" His look was immediately challenging and cynically curious.

I realized with dawning horror that I could not answer his question; there were no logical conclusions I could possibly offer. I tried a different tactic.

"I found your . . . teaching methods rather odious and entirely degenerative, to be honest."

I managed to say this to him while looking him in the eye.

"_Did_ you."

"Certainly. One can only hope, Professor, that you do not conduct your classes in such a way. I found it disturbing, morally despicable. I wonder if my parents have made a grave error in having my sister attend Hogwarts this fall. If the episode with the snake venom was any indication, I fear for her safety, no less her modesty. I really should bring it to Dumbledore's attention, for who knows how many naïve students you have adulterated or will continue to debase? It is no wonder that the wizarding world is so very behind scientifically speaking, I daresay it has barely surpassed the Barbaric in its qualified state."

I was babbling, I knew, but hoped nonetheless that the conviction in my words was convincing.

"I see."

For a long space of time he was silent. I sipped from my glass and looked at the window, at the fireplace, at the bed, anywhere but at the larger-than-life man across from me. Eventually the silence drove me to stand up and pace the room, glass in hand and robe slithering behind me with the quietest of whispers. The stone walls seemed to wave gently, to congeal into focus and then musically expand. The scent of pine was so very strong, so very lovely. Everything around me was glimmering in perfect symbiotic harmony: the faint sound of night birds; the golden, sumptuous glow of the candlelight caught and refracted in a mirror; the wafting, male scent of clove and musk –

He must leave. I could not trust myself were he to stay. He was so utterly powerful, even in his silence, that I knew it would soon undo me. I turned abruptly and set the glass down on a nearby shelf with a riotous _clang_, intent on asking him to remove himself immediately from my chambers in the same voice I had used earlier to discount him, and then gasped in dismay to find him standing in front of the door. 

"I thank you for being so. . . candid, Miss Knight," he said, and I saw that his hand was on the doorknob. "I assure you that I understand your feelings, and therefore shall no longer seek to . . . corrupt your most honorable intentions here at Hogwarts." 

He pulled the door open, and I found myself walking quickly across the room towards him—to do what? Stop him? Take back what I had said? Beg for his forgiveness? I stopped mere feet from him and took control of my thoughts despite the hazy, dreamlike light that had suddenly imbued everything about me.

"I . . . I hope that . . ." I stumbled haltingly over my words and forced myself to focus on Penelope. Dear, sweet Penelope. "What I mean to say is that-- while I thank you for your help-- it is, I think, best for both of us if you were to leave me to my own devices. Professor."

He looked down at me. His eyes wandered to one of my shoulders, laid bare from the robe slipping off and gathering in the crook of my arm. I hastened to pull it up once again, and then I felt his fingers suddenly wrap around my upper arm. He leaned forward, and I found myself pressed into the frame of the door, my back straightened painfully against its ancient molding.

"You speak so prettily," he murmured, and his deep voice sent vibrations into the wood behind me, "so very righteously. Pity I don't believe a word of it." His face was so close I could feel his words on my eyelashes, feel the heat of his lips as they brushed within a fraction of mine. 

I closed my eyes and felt my breath catch as I lifted my face to him, inhaling his scent and longing for his lips to just move the fragment of distance to mine. I let the robe fall from my shoulders, felt myself relax under his grip, and silently urged him to take complete control; to make me give in to him.

His breath now caressed my face, and his lips trailed a path across my temple and cheek. They stopped and lingered just at my mouth, and if I pressed forward I could detect their faintest stroke. 

He held me there for a moment, allowing his lips to part softly but not quite touch mine, and then just as suddenly he pushed me away.

Gasping and flustered, I opened my eyes and took in his wary expression.

"I overstep myself," he said smoothly. "At times it is easy to forget my – what did you call it? – oh yes, my _degenerative_ disposition." He straightened and dusted himself off lightly. "Good luck with your experiments, Miss Knight. That is if you decide it is worth remaining here at this temple of educational immorality."

I watched, astonished and seething, as his eyebrow lifted in its familiar way before he turned and walked away from me and down into the familiar darkness of the hall.

My eyes followed as his form strode between the shafts of moonlight, his robes floating on his heels.

"I meant every word I said!" I called after him, lamely.

My voice echoed and faded within the hall's drafty atmosphere. I sighed and rubbed my arms against the chill that tended to settle within the outer walls late at night. I cast a glance down the opposite hallway, wondering if the windows were always left open, and stopped.

  


There in the shifting shadows, with the kinetic tongues of torchlight revealing her fierce expression, stood Katrina Dratch.

  
  
  


So I suppose, really, that I shouldn't have been too taken by surprise when, two days later, I was poisoned to death.

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reference: _A History of Western Philosophy_, by Bertrand Russell

  
  
  



	10. White Byrony

Chapter Ten -- _White Byrony _

  
  


Shall I attempt here to put it into words? 

But really, the English language is ill equipped for describing such things. 

Not poisoning; the hideous, sluggish, possessing torment of it – no, not that.

I'm speaking of death.

Of death I can only describe it as what it is not. It is not peace, nor is it pain. It is not love, despair, remorse, or joy. It is neither freeing nor binding. There is no tunnel of light, no ferryman, no choirs of angels or pits of devils; none of those mythical or religious adornments. 

There are those who will say that death is what you believe it to be, desire it to be. Perhaps. I admit I had no preconceived notions of what happens to a soul once it passes over, and therefore one may say I experienced that which I had anticipated. All I know is that it simply _was_.

There is no thought in death. There are no feelings attached to death. When pressed, however, I will say that at best there is a dull consciousness, a pale flickering of self-recognition and of the space around you. Voices are half-whispers delivered as a shushing, never-ending drone. Things are seen, but only from afar, as though softly veiled in ether. You see people you knew and fragments of places familiar, though you don't remember their names. A spinning, far-off carnival. You watch these pass by for months, years, eons, who knows? You are a ghost and yet less than a ghost. You are a soft mark in the fabric of time, a fading breath of all that is.

Yes, death is a funny thing. Pardon my irreverence.

I don't know for how long I existed in this way (if in fact it was the act of existing). But I know that at some point the whispers became louder and the veil thinner on those fragments of sight. The colours grew brighter and began to take form, like the slow focusing of a camera. Eventually – and again I couldn't say exactly when -- I could remember things. I could once again know _myself_. I was aware. 

I heard a voice and knew it to belong to Octavia. I felt a pressure on my hand. I felt a coolness on my brow. I could distinguish the sounds of footsteps and my own heartbeat. I could smell organic and pungent things. Faceless people stood over me and then were gone. Sunlight slanted onto the white sheets covering me and then quickly faded to moonlight. And slowly, ever so slowly, these things became vibrant - almost painfully so. I had returned to the world. 

And yet I could not move, nor could I speak. I could only watch, a silent spectator, as things were done to and around me; liquids were forced down my throat, gowns were changed, fresh flowers brought in to replace the dying ones. Octavia never left my side while the sun shone. She gripped my hand and talked gently to me as though I could answer her, and I could do naught but blink mutely back. And when night fell she would bring the bed cover to my chin and leave me in the candlelight.

It was at these times, when I was quite alone and with only the lamenting sound of the wind at the windowpane for company, that I would attempt to piece together what had happened. It was like awakening from a dream, the remembrance of it. Images came to mind flashes, really – the potions master and his acidic eyes, the high tune of a breath whistling high between pearl teeth, and the livid, unearthly pain. 

It had been water, a simple glass of water on my nightstand. Hadn't it been water? I had poured it myself before retiring to my bed. Yes, I had poured it, I remembered. And I recalled how, upon rising the following morning, I had taken a drink from that very glass.

And I remembered what had followed. Oh yes, I remembered that.

In Hollywood films poisoning is a very dramatic – as I suppose is wonting in films – sequence of events: there is the immediate choking and flailing about, the hands are brought to the throat in desperation and panic, perhaps then copious retching, if the victim doesn't first stiffen like a board and, with eyes rolled up into the back of the head, fall over dead as you please.

I experienced none of these things. In fact, I was unaware that anything was amiss until much later in the day when, while observing a sloppy test run of energy-absorbing molecules found in certain magical metalloids, a sharp pain lanced through my abdomen. This in itself wasn't cause for alarm; I had been eating poorly for some days. What surprised me was the sudden rapidity of the sensation. Within minutes my lower intestines were clenched in spasms of unspeakable agony, and I dropped my quill to press my hands into my stomach. It was indescribable. My spine suddenly felt aflame, and a hot sensation of paralysis spread sleepily into my joints. But my brain – that was the worst of it – my brain felt as though it were literally bubbling within my skull. My entire body was in an unnatural uproar, and I at once realized that I had lost complete control of every part of it. To say it had been terrifying wouldn't come remotely close to how it felt at the time. 

I recall being unable to breathe, for my lungs had seized, and more so recall the fresh wave of panic that had coursed over me in the wake of the realization that I was about to die. 

And I will tell you something else.

At that precise moment – the moment when you know you will die – you mind does a strange thing. It bursts. Not literally, though I wouldn't have been surprised had mine done, but rather it feels as though a gate is flung open and every thought, every memory, every feeling comes rushing out of it at once. You are besieged by utter sensation in every atom of your being. I actually remember thinking briefly of crackers and cheese before another thought popped in to replace it within a microsecond. And then, like a hurricane abating, there is an odd calm that steals over the mind. An acceptance. It is a languid, comforting darkness.

Not unlike the darkness that now covered me in the bed where I lay. I knew I must still be at Hogwarts, knew I was in the hospital wing. I could smell it, see it. What I didn't know was for how long I had been there. I had spent what felt like an eternity in a state of non-existence, and yet it seemed that time had not passed at all in this still room. No calendars hung, finger-curled and X'ed, on the walls as would have in university; no whirring, cogged, magical contraptions to herald the date. Neither could I ask, and the frustration in that simple fact was almost too much to bear. I couldn't live like this, I knew, and yet I lived. It was complete and utter misery.

As I lay immobile, looking at the ceiling (for I could look nowhere else), the curtain around my bed was pulled softly back, and there was Remus. 

Oh, the inescapable humiliation, the horrible knowing that he could see me like this; an invalid, a fixed, never-changing motion. I lowered my eyes and wished with my very soul (if I in fact had one at all) that he would walk away, would not look upon me with eyes round and soft with pity, would close the curtain once again and leave me in peace.

I felt him pull a chair close to the bed and then felt his warm hand engulf mine. I kept my eyes closed, though hateful tears of shame began to gather and threatened to spill down the sides of my face.

He sat for some time watching me, merely holding my hand. He brushed my hair from my shoulders and over the pillow, and then there was only the sound of his rhythmic breathing. When at last a tear broke loose, he brushed that away as well.

"Davina."

I remained still. 

"I . . .I'm so very sorry." A sigh.

Another tear ran across my upper cheek and plopped onto the pillow with a muffled thud. _Ah, my own self-pity is undoing me._

"Look at me. Please."

I lifted my lids slowly and looked at the whiteness of the ceiling, the many-veined stone that spread patterns over it.

"This won't last," I heard him say. "It's a symptom of the poison. Do you hear me? This is only temporary." His hand squeezed mine tightly, and I let my eyes shift to where he sat.

He looked so tired, I thought, so soul-weary. "Ah Davina, I know how you must feel," he said, and the despair in his voice was strange to me. "To have no control, to be unable to govern even the simplest of actions. It's . . .it must be . . ." and his voice broke off and dispersed into the room. He was looking over me and staring at the emptiness beyond, his face the picture of hopelessness. A part of me wanted to squeeze his hand in reassurance, to give him words of relief, perhaps even to make him smile. But of course I could do none of those things. 

He shook himself free of his thoughts and once again looked down at me. "I can't begin to imagine what you've been through," he said to me gently. "It took Severus weeks to identify the substance you had been given, and even then he couldn't find the exact match. It was some sort of peculiar foreign toxin. He says it is one of the rarest poisons he has ever come across, and was lucky to come up with an antidote. He wasn't sure it would work at all. You were, for all intents and purposes, dead." 

My eyes must have widened somewhat, because he smiled kindly and reached out to stroke the hair from my brow. He abruptly stopped when his fingertips touched my face, perhaps feeling awkward with doing something so familiar, and returned his hand to his knee. "Oh Davina, I'm sorry to sound so clinical, and Octavia would be furious if she discovered I am telling you this, but I think you should know, would want to know. You had no heartbeat, no oxygen. Your blood had begun to settle and your muscles to suffer from rigor mortis. Octavia was absolutely devastated. Your family was going to be notified – I offered to visit them myself – but Dumbledore suggested an inquiry before any action was taken. A glass was found in your rooms, and Severus was able to determine how you had . . .well, died. Someone had wanted you gone, simply put."

I closed my eyes again. _Katrina Dratch. Katrina Dratch had poisoned me. _I wanted so desperately to speak, to tell Remus what had happened, tell everyone, yell it from the turrets of Hogwarts. _Screw fighting my own battles,_ I thought, _this has gone far beyond a grudge. The woman needs to be stopped._ Uncharacteristic rage, bile-filled and seething, rose in my throat.

Remus leaned forward, placing an elbow on his knee, and ran his free hand tiredly over his face and through his hair. "The odd thing was, the poison was acting as an individual agent within you – a sort of . . . parasite, for lack of a better term. _It_ was what was forcing your body to exhibit death-like symptoms. You were dead, and yet alive. I know," he shrugged helplessly, " it sounds impossible."

_Impossible? _I was beginning to believe there was no such thing.

"Even Dumbledore was puzzled, you know. But once Severus was able to determine the chemical structure of the substance, he though he could come up with a counteractive antidote. He said you would starve to death before the poison actually killed you, if in fact that was its purpose. So while he worked – and I don't think he slept for near a month – Poppy and Octavia watched over you, taking all the necessary steps to keep you from, well, from turning into an actual corpse, really. The trick was knowing when the poison stopped and actual death began. They had no way of knowing until the antidote began working. Dumbledore thought it was worth the chance. And it was." He gave a limp, uneasy smile, and I found myself nauseated at the images that came to my mind. A corpse! Was the intent of the poison then to have me buried alive? It was unthinkable, terrifying. And oh, a lifeless body; having to feed and bathe such a thing! How my heart warmed at the thought of my dear friend Octavia watching over me! And the potions master – well, no doubt he enjoyed the challenge. I wasn't about to fool myself into thinking it was anything more than his professional curiosity that pressed him into pursuing the matter. And dear, sweet Remus. I felt myself unaccountably overcome with emotion, with endearment. I wished so much to return Remus's squeeze of my hand, to embrace him and feel alive.

"They said you had recovered somewhat," Remus continued, "and so I wanted to come see you, talk to you. The paralysis will eventually wear off, but I don't know when. Severus said it may be some days yet."

He stroked my hand and I could feel the tears welling up once again, but they were tears of gratitude, of relief. Ah, I would not remain forever like this, trapped in my own body.

"I would understand if you decided to leave Hogwarts," he said. "Given the circumstances, no one would blame you. But . . .I for one would be reluctant to see you go, especially so close to start of term."

My mind jarred. The fall term was starting so soon? I must have been in this bed for weeks! To see Penelope again, to kiss her blonde head and hold her in my arms! I felt suddenly renewed, voraciously alive, and so very grateful to know life was still before me. Oh, I would never, never again take it for granted!

Remus bent forward then, and whispered to me, and his voice was filled with solemn promise: "We will find out who did this to you, Davina. We will." He placed my hand gently back to my side and stood up. "I will come see you again tomorrow, if that is all right."

I couldn't answer, but I may have indicated something with my eyes, for he bent quickly over me and planted a halting kiss on my forehead. Before I could blink again, the curtain was falling closed around me and I was once again alone.

_There is no need, Remus,_ I thought as I watched the shadows curl into the ceiling. _I know who it was that did this to me, and I can assure you my vengeance will be sound._

I had only to wait my time until I could act upon it. 

  
  
  
  
  


The weather was fine and the windows had been thrown open to allow the early harvest breeze into the hospital wing. Curtains billowed like sails into the space of the room, and I fancied that I could hear the sounds of many beings out on the Hogwarts grounds – preparations being made for the students' arrival four days hence. I was playing a game of wizard's chess with Octavia, and numerous were the times she had to stop and wait with a heavy sigh for me as I scrutinized the pieces, turning them over and over again for signs of mechanization. 

"Would you just move already?" she snapped peevishly. "Honestly, I'll grow lichen before this game is over."

I smiled sheepishly and moved a piece, reveling in the joy of the simple movement, of the weight of the object and how my fingers stroked the crown in passing. It had been six days since the paralysis had begun to wear off, and though I still could not walk unaided, the ability to once again speak and move was, to my mind, nothing short of a miracle. Poppy was constantly there, prodding and poking me, taking my temperature with odd accoutrements and wrapping my head in foul-smelling white bandages, but I took it all with a sense of appreciation and wonder. Since Remus had first visited me and told me that I would soon recover, I had thrown all of my energy into the process. Every waking hour was spent trying to detect the slightest movement of my fingers or the grating feel of my voice in my throat. One day I had awoken and found that my eyebrows could move, as was evident when Remus had finished telling me a truly pitiful joke.

"And so the goblin says, 'What, sir? That's my nose, thank you very much!'"

My eyes rolled and, before I could register what had happened, Remus was on his feet with a look of alarm on his features. I thought to myself that surely, he had had this response to that insipid joke before, but he remained wide-eyed and motionless. 

"Davina! You moved!" he sputtered. "Your eyebrows just moved!" 

I widened my eyes in surprise, and then immediately attempted wiggling my brows again. Remus clasped my hand. "You can move them! Brilliant! Wait until Octavia hears, she'll be done up! And Dumbledore as well!"

Before I knew it my bed was a-swarm with people, all urging me to stick out my tongue or wiggle my toes or perhaps let loose a good, healthy belch – that was Dumbledore's suggestion – and at the end of the day I could feel the first crusty sound of my voice deep in my throat. 

It was beautiful.

Now, as I watched Octavia move her chess piece with military precision, I gave my toes a quick wiggle and knew contentment. 

Well, contentment in a very loose sense. I had spent days in my bed struck mute as an invalid, which gave me much time for reflection and plotting. And I had at last decided to wait to tell of Katrina Dratch. I would wait until Severus Snape showed himself, and then I would tell him and everyone within range what I thought of the woman. I would have witnesses, oh yes, I would have witnesses to her unspeakable threat and execution of that threat. Hopefully even Katrina herself would be present. And then it would just be a matter of time before she was out of Hogwarts for good. The fact that Severus Snape apparently went sleepless in order to work on an antidote for me didn't move me one jot. He did what any man with Dumbledore as a superior would do, what his profession called for, despite his association with the Dratch woman. I remembered with crimson shame that night when I had been so wanton with him, had done no less than throw myself at him after my moral tirade, and likewise remembered his smooth refusal. If I hadn't already been so very grateful to be alive, the memory of that night would have had me praying for death, if only to escape the utter shame of it all. And I had noticed -- indeed it was a meddlesome, constant sentiment – that he had not come to see me once in the hospital wing, even for the simple joy of gloating over the success of his antidote. 

My jaw worked itself as I made a clumsy move with my chess piece and, eyes sparkling behind her round spectacles, Octavia slid her white queen into place with a snide "Checkmate."

I threw up my hands and leaned back into the bed pillows. "I should know better than to outwit you," I smiled. 

"Yes, you should," she replied imperiously, then went to work resetting the pieces. "Maybe one more ass-whooping would serve to have you remember that."

"Let's be having you, then," I grinned, and rubbed my hands together in anticipation.

As I moved my pillows to better support myself, I heard the faint sound of footsteps in the outer hall, and then saw a black shape fill the doorway. The potions master. Did the man _always_ know when he crossed the thoughts of others? His timing was unnatural.

He approached Poppy at the head of the room and after a moment of conversation, she lead him towards my bed, all but singing his praises as she expanded on her methods of corpse care-taking. He was nodding solemnly, but his eyes were solidly fixed on mine.

No human being could possibly hold that gaze.

I felt a distinct blush bloom in my face, and my prior swarthiness dissipated in a millisecond. I looked to Octavia in silent panic, but she was already watching his approach with wary eye. 

"And here is our patient!" Poppy grinned as she waved a vaudevillian, introductory hand at me. I might as well have been a chimpanzee with a fez hat and an accordion.

The potions master eyed me grimly and I sank further into the sheets. Could I have pulled them completely over my head I would have done. I had, inexplicably, forgotten the clout of his gaze; the piercing, unwavering burn of it.

"Ah. And how is the sickling sparrow?" he asked. The question was devoid of any emotion or authentic feeling. 

"Oh she's recuperated _beautifully_," smiled Poppy. 

Octavia had stiffened upon Severus Snape's arrival, which had not passed unnoticed by the potions master.

"Professor Blackchurch." He bowed his head marginally and Octavia gave only the briefest of nods in return. Then she surreptitiously reached over and grasped my hand.

"She's nearly recovered, Severus," continued Poppy in a state of medical euphoria. "She is moving once again, and speaking too, bless her. I have dealt with a few unusual medical circumstances, I'll have you know, but nothing like what our Miss Knight has been through." With this they then all turned and looked upon me with a mixture of curiosity and expectation, as if I were merely a thought-piquing lab specimen. I felt my ire rise to ungovernable heights.

"I am ever so grateful for your help in the matter, Professor," I managed. "I heard you worked rather diligently to find an antidote."

Severus Snape looked at me with hooded, unblinking eyes, and then his shoulders rose in a dismissive shrug. "I assure you Miss Knight, it was of little consequence, constitutionally speaking. Let us say it was a matter of professional interest. The poison was. . . a rather challenging riddle, an intellectual enigma. I found it all very . . . fascinating." He produced a polite lip curl for Poppy and Octavia, then turned to me once again. Boredom was etched into every feature.

I was stunned. His callousness knew no bounds. Suddenly, my best-laid plans were scattered to the wind in the face of my indignation. _The bastard. The unfeeling, self-important bastard. Let's just see how you feel about this, shall we? _

I cleared my throat meaningfully -- perhaps a bit too dramatically -- then spoke: "Well, yes, I understand your interest in the matter, Professor, really I _do_." I then paused for effect, silently delighting in the secret I was about to unveil. "After all, I can only begin to think of the consequences this would have upon your relationship with _Katrina Dratch_. Murderers make for poor partners, do they not?" 

If I had hoped for dramatic gasps or dawning looks of realization from those around me, I was bitterly disappointed. Their faces showed only a hint of puzzlement, and the potion master looked as though I hadn't spoken a human word. Octavia's brows drew together, and Poppy's features fell slightly, as if my quick recovery had been only too good to be true. 

When I realized that my Great Revelation had sputtered out like a defective firework, I sought to make myself understood.

"Katrina Dratch poisoned me," I said, and I heard the desperation creeping into my voice. "She . . .she was the one who did this to me."

Poppy gave a slight, uncomfortable laugh, and Severus Snape looked positively amused.

"Katrina Dratch," he drawled. "I see. And tell us, Miss Knight, how you came by that particular conclusion?"

His patronizing tone had the effect of ice water being poured over my head. I looked from one face to the other, but was met only with embarrassed silence. 

"She . . . she talked with me in the library. She was upset that I . . ." and with growing distress I realized that I hadn't told Octavia of my sessions with Severus Snape, nor of his late-night visit to my rooms. Her hand gave mine a friendly squeeze, and the guilt I suddenly felt was overwhelming. I had done something she had expressly advised me against, and I couldn't find the heart to tell her so. She had looked out for me from my very first day at Hogwarts, and I, like a thankless child, had flagrantly ignored her warnings and had done as I pleased, thank you very much. I couldn't possibly tell her of the jealous confrontation Katrina and I had, for then I would have to explain that I had discounted her advice as easily as if had been from a stranger. I felt roughly four inches tall. 

Poppy interrupted my thoughts by smiling awkwardly and bending to straighten my bed sheets. "Now, now. No doubt you are still somewhat confused from your experience, and who could blame you, poor dear. It isn't every day that a person comes back to life now, is it?" She fluffed the pillows behind me before placing her hand on my brow to check for signs of fever. I watched it all with growing confusion and shock. 

"But– I looked pleadingly at the potions master, hoping for some sort of signal that he had understood, knew the reason why Katrina Dratch would want to harm me. But he looked entirely unconcerned, as though merely enduring the ravings of a madwoman locked behind a barred door. 

"Katrina Dratch is an exemplary scholar and fellow faculty member," he said lowly. "She would have neither reason to poison you nor would she have the disposition. Perhaps partaking in fewer . . . stimulants would serve to clear your mind." He gave me a knowing, if not wholly accusatory look, and then nodded to the others. "Madame Pomfrey, Professor Blackchurch." He shot me one last withering glance and then promptly turned on his heel and left the room.

I felt deflated; completely and utterly abashed. I looked to Octavia for comfort, but she swept the chessboard away with a flick of her wand and refused to look at me. Poppy gave me a glass of gray foulness and watched guardedly as I forced it down my throat before she left the wing for her own office. 

The silence was unbearable.

At last Octavia set her chair against the wall and came back to my bed to look over me. "Get some rest," she said humorlessly. I could see that her mind was elsewhere, and somehow I knew that she was aware of my unspoken confessions. I looked away, toward the hallway door. She stood over me for several more moments, and then with a gentle pat she left the hospital wing, her Victorian skirts swishing their familiar melody upon the stone floor. I watched as her train swept around the doorframe's corner, and then I sank back into the pillows.

Suddenly the hideous, suspended state of death seemed very comforting.

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


_You were a tooth,_ said the cat, _a tooth in the mouth of the god. _ The cat walked beside me and his mouth was a crescent. You are pleased, I replied. I saw the flaking of the sky and you are pleased. _Circles within circles, _said the cat. _There is a dead light in the forest and it is the light of a dry land. Black is the color of the god's mouth and black is salvation_.He walked with his paw in my hand. The sky stretched above and roared its grandness. The flowers were bent and the equations no longer took wing. You walk with light step, I said. You are pleased. _Black is the grave_, smiled the cat,_ and white is the womb. But mud and bone is the between. What did you find in the wood?_

I found a dead light.

  
  
  
  
  
  


When the birdsong roused me from my slumber with the first fingers of the dawn, I knew what I had to do.

  
  
  
  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Author's Note: A heartfelt thank you to Rickfan37 and Elizabeth for beta-reading this chapter and for their suggestions and comments.


	11. Black Hellebore

Chapter Eleven – _Black Hellebore_

What comes of death? Surely many things to many people; a gift, a release, a promise, a nightmare. But to me it brought only a fading _once_, a closing of something gilded and innocent, and an opening of something foreign and unclean. I am unsure when it happened, precisely. These sorts of things are never measurable, have no value by any clock or instrument. These things are born silently and then they exist and there is no knowing where the invisible seed was planted. It may have been the cat-dream that had rooted so far into my subconsciousness, had rubbed and scraped against it until a great scar rose in its place and pressed like a malignant growth into my other thoughts. It may have been the experience of existing in a place other than this world and, like a weary, bedraggled traveler returning home once again, I could no longer look upon my old life with the innocence in which I once did. It may have been the unexpected and powerful joy I felt when I laid eyes on golden Penelope once again and took her into my arms despite her embarrassed murmurings--her classmates looked on as sharp-eyed foxes and gnashed their little white teeth and she felt their stares acutely. It may have been the simple realization that I was quite alone here in this grand and towering school; the knowledge that the battle was on the horizon and I was but an army of one with skull and crossbones on my red and tattered standard. It may have been a result of all of these things, perhaps not a one, and I cannot say. But it happened nonetheless.

I changed.

I felt it in absolutely everything.

A strapping down, an icy floe of constitution, a monstrous shift in my being. And yet more.

I had experienced it before, of course–in times of anger or fear. I had felt it the first time Severus Snape had confronted me in his torch-stained classroom, had felt it the morning I had come down to the Great Hall, whore-powdered and gowned and determined to prevail. But those were fleeting visits into this new emotional territory and were quickly buried again in the face of some new, unfamiliar challenge. What I felt now I knew to be enduring; a mark forever burned into the fabric of my being.

The potions master had been so very near the truth that afternoon when he had placed his lips upon my hand and had drawn the serpent's poison from my veins.

I had no heart.

Coming back from the dead, as it were, had not served to expose my humbleness for my continued animation nor my deep esteem for life, as I had thought in those first days. It had, perhaps surprisingly, made me resentful. It filled me with a cohesive and indignant anger.

Judge me as you like but I speak my own truth, as disturbing and ugly as it may be to you.

A day and a day and another. The sun set at growing angles.

Tuesday at twilight Remus came to my rooms like a sullen thing. We sat and talked and drank some, but his conversation was monosyllabic and the fading sunlight painted the down-turned line of his lips into a shadowed parody of a tragedy mask. I soon grew tired of his secretness, for I knew he carried something in his mind that he would not share – though he begged for its attention through his glum behavior – and at last sought to change the subject.

"Take me to the forest," I said.

He looked at me from across the table, and his face was hidden in flickering shadow. "No. Please stop asking me, Davina. It is no place for you, or for anyone." He let his wand trace stars on the wooden surface.

I watched the patterns, saw the shadows its movements made on the wall. They wove and slid like eels on the grey stone. "Who lives in that hut out there on the grounds?"

"The groundskeeper, and he won't aid you either. Dumbledore has forbidden anyone to go into the forest. For good reason."

"You know what things are in the forest, I would be safe with you."

"No."

He was tired. His lids slept at half mast. He had grown thinner, yellower; a cracked parchment in woolen clothes; ill-faced.

I took a turn of the room and watched my own shadow. It limped like a ghoul. Like Katrina Dratch.

"I hate this," I said, and when he turned a questioning look to me I waved a hand at my left leg. "It is not the fact that it refuses to work properly, nor that I may very well have it for the rest of my life, this limping gait, though that possibility upsets me. It's the irony of the thing. The _irony_."

Remus turned back to his star-tracing. "You may have it forever, yes. It is not the end of the world. People have lived with worse conditions." He lifted his head and gazed out the window. "If what you believe of Katrina Dratch is true, it will come to light eventually, though I myself have a hard time understanding it." He looked at me quickly, apologetically. "I do believe you, Davina, please don't misunderstand. It is only that it is unusually simple. We should be certain, wouldn't you agree? Before we take any action." The sentence died in a whisper.

My thoughts flared and died in rapid succession; a string of fire crackers in my head. I longed for my lazy ways, my slow contemplation of things, my days of ponder and mull and sluggish think. A scientific theory took years to germinate. Not so with questions of murderous motive. No, those are rather insisting.

"I will go into the forest myself," I said. "I must."

He shrugged, as though bored with the subject. "I cannot stop you, of course. Not if you are bent on it."

I could take no more. "What is it, Remus? Won't you confide in me? You are fading under my eyes, and I worry for you."

His form hunched closer to the table, but he made no sound save the scratching of his wand as it continued its patterns. "Ah, it is nothing. I shouldn't have come tonight. I'm exhausted." He stopped his hand and rose from the table. He placed his wand in his pocket, and it stuck out at an odd angle. "I'm sorry, Davina. I think all of the traveling between London and Hogwarts has left me positively knackered. I slept in a compartment on the train the other day, despite the students. My bones hurt."

I nodded, not in understanding but out of politeness, and he left. The candle flames bowed as the door closed behind him, and I watched them, looked through them.

I once again took to pacing the length of the room with hands locked behind me, again catching glimpses of my form on the walls. To my mind it resembled an image from a monstrous shadow carousel, an antiqued Halloween wheel. I thought of the forest, of the hut that sat before it like a thatched sentinel. I remembered the smell of the wind as it raced through the trees and the foreboding that it bred within me. What was in there? And why did the need to know drive me so? Mystery, mystery. All was mystery and I loathed it with every atom of my being. I felt blindfolded and mute, reaching out my arms to let my fingers grasp a hold, feeling for something – anything – to make me aware that I was not wandering alone in a boundless void. In my mind's eye the others stood in a circle around me, just out of reach in a velveted parlor game, amused by my struggle. Octavia, the Potions master, Remus, Dumbledore. All of them.

I stopped my pacing and brought a lock of hair that had been brushing my elbow to my lips. I chewed on it thoughtfully; it tasted of bitter lavender. I left for the library.

I entered and made my way past the tables of students either studiously bent over parchments or giggling in cupped hands to one another. As I passed they fell silent and watched my hobbling procession with timid curiosity, for they did not know who I was and, more importantly, who I was likely to report to should I witness any misbehavior whatsoever. As I made my way beyond the tables to the far end their voices rose once again in my wake, my presence already forgotten.

I wove through the shelves, stopping every so often to study a fading gilded spine or peer at the uppermost volumes as they arched toward the high ceiling. Wooden, angular ladders on runners rested in my path, creating an obstacle course for the superstitious. I ran a finger along some titles at eye-level, turned the corner to continue my search on the other side, and stopped short.

Severus Snape stood in the shadows of the aisle, leaning slightly against the nearby shelves and engrossed in a book that lay open in his hands. A pale finger rested in the center of one of the open pages like a light pointing a path against his darkness and the dimmed torchlight. His eyebrows were drawn and his lips were moving and I fancied that I could hear a low hum in the stones beneath my feet. I knew he was aware of me instantly but, rather than startle and slam the book closed, he finished reading his sentence with deliberate care before closing the book softly -- keeping his radiant finger between the pages – and curled the tome up to his chest as his arms crossed before him. His robes drew shut like the closing curtains on a stage. He looked up at me with mild interest.

"Miss Knight."

"Professor."

"I see you are once again in possession of your mobilization." He was being civil. He was always civil.

"So I am."

My voice was thin to my ears and I wanted to leave.

"Ah."

We eyed each other silently for a moment, so as not to seem rude, and then I turned from him. "Pardon me, Professor. I came to retrieve a particular book." I gave him a cursory nod – it was a courtly, ridiculous thing for me to do, but the situation called for it. And he in his way called for it. "Good evening to you."

"Good evening, Miss Knight."

As I ventured back around the corner his voice as almost a lazy afterthought came floating to me between the volumes now separating us. "You stay, do you?" He had cast his net.

I peeked through the line of sight between the books and the shelf and saw the shape of his form, not by the light of the library but by his inky darkness. His expression was hidden by the shelf above. Against my better judgment I retraced my steps until I was once again facing him from the end of the aisle. He remained leaning against the shelves.

"I do, Professor. And you are surprised by it, no doubt."

His hair brushed his chin and then he lifted his face and fixed me with a hooded look. "Not particularly, Miss Knight, no. I imagine a scientist such as yourself would be all too prepared to endure all manner of discomforts to find an answer to her questions. It is a rather inconvenient, though admirable, trait of the logical mind."

Ah, so things had not changed between us. I felt a small stab of excitement with the realization that his words no longer affected me as they once had, did not send me into a flurry of frightened and shy confusion. I yet had my wits about me. "You are mistaken in one respect, Professor," I replied. "I _know_ the answer. It is the desire to convince others of the verity of that answer which keeps me tied to Hogwarts."

Severus Snape's eyes glinted from the depths of the darkened aisle, twin pinpricks of refracted light. "You think you know the answer, Miss Knight, but you in fact do not."

Games. I brought a hand to the shelf nearest me and faced him fully. "I wouldn't expect you to say otherwise, of course. You may defend and secret away your precious Katrina Dratch, but it will come to nothing. I will unveil her for what she is sooner or later."

He lips pulled back. "You speak like a vengeful child," he said, "and it's . . . unbecoming of you. If you continue in this way you will do more harm to yourself than you could possibly dream of. And I do not mention the others who will suffer for your thoughtlessness."

"Do not talk to me of thoughtlessness, Professor. You are the very monarch of the term! I had hoped that you would have brain enough to see what is directly before you, the evidence that just as surely covers Katrina Dratch's hands in blood as any common assassin."

"You have no evidence. Oh, you have threats and woman-glares and silly, secret confrontations – yes, I know of it all, Miss Knight – but that is all you have. I do see what is directly before me and it is a loud and brash woman who does not have the presence of mind to recognize that she is in a library where noise carries into every dark corner."

"Justice means so little to you, then? You may lie in your bed at night knowing that you have lifted not a single finger in my aid, but rather smothered it with everything that you are? Katrina Dratch must be very special indeed if you are willing to live with the--"

"_Lower . . . your . . . voice._" The lethal ring of the command silenced me and I glared back in sullen response. He strode forward and I felt his robes brush my shins as he came to a halt and towered over my figure. "If you believe your words cannot be heard, Miss Knight, then you are a bigger fool than I first thought."

"What do I care if the entire school can hear?" I spat at him. "I have nothing to hide. You and others may consort and plot and dream of murder, but I assure you, Professor, that not even the ghastly experience of death itself will steer me from my course. I will have it known that there is a killer within the walls of Hogwarts!"

A riotous black storm fell across the potion master's features. He reached out a hand and clasped my upper arm and then he mercilessly shook me. "You stupid, dramatic thing," he hissed. His anger was palpable, inescapable. With his fingers wrapped painfully around my arm he then propelled me forward out of the aisles and through the echoing library. Candle flame and wooden symmetry blurred before me as I was pushed forward as if a mere rag doll. Oh God, the man had strength! The students momentarily ceased their studying to watch as we passed, and the potions master stared boldly at them with the fire of the profane. "_Get back to work_!" he hissed, and an immediate shuffling of papers and scraping of chairs was heard as an awkward panic descended upon the tables.

Once out in the hallway I strove to break free of his grip. "How dare you drag me around like this – let me go! What do you think you are doing?" I dared not tell of my slow, shameful acknowledgment – that the fingertips pressed into my flesh formed a wreath of feathered heat 'round my humors, that the eye that looked at me now drove an arrow of some unfulfilled physical sequence through my breast. Saint Sebastian, how you have my pity!

"If you refuse to listen to suggestion, Miss Knight, then there is nothing for it. I shall put you where you may rage and rail to your heart's content and where you may do so without bringing danger upon the heads of us all."

Newly afraid, I fought against his iron hold to no avail; I was anchored as effectively as a toy galleon in a tempestuous black sea. He continued to propel me in front of him, his wide strides making me either stumble or double my steps to avoid being forcibly dragged. We met no one in the halls. When I looked up to see if anyone watched from the upper floors I could only catch the congealing gloom in the castle's arches, lit dimly from below. And when we eventually descended into the dungeons, my heart sank. So he intended to quiet me by his own awful methods. He would make sure I would never speak again.

I felt a nasty impudence swell in my breast. "What do you intend to do with me, Professor?" I hissed softly. "Leave me in a locked and cobwebbed cupboard with your serpent? Have me partake in one of your vile and noxious spirits? Transform me into a slug so that you may sprinkle me with salt? That would doubtless give you pleasure."

But he ignored my remarks. We progressed through the humid lower hallway until we were before his classroom door and I could see the darker cracks in its surface. With some low murmurings it opened invitingly, as though it itself were an accomplice, and I was pushed toward the other door – the door to his offices -- and then I fought in earnest. I thrashed beneath his hold, causing his robes to slightly tangle. Several vials fell out of hidden pockets and onto the floor, tolling like silver bells upon the stones. My foot rolled precariously upon one of the small glass containers, throwing my balance backward, but his grip remained firm. I threw up a hand to strike at him, to dig my fingers in his scalp or face, for his other hand was still holding the volume he had been reading in the library, but he easily avoided my flailing blows and pressed onward, the determination on his features hardening. When at last the office door was unlocked I was thrown into the darkness before him and I fell painfully upon my hands and knees with an inhuman slapping sound. He followed, closing the door behind him, and the candles blazed to life around us.

"Now. You are free to say what you like," he sighed with heavy impatience as he tossed the book onto a nearby chair. "Pace and rage and spit and howl as you will."

I pulled myself from the floor with shaking knees and said nothing.

"Do not disappoint me, Miss Knight."

"You are loathsome," I said at last

"So I've often been told. I had hoped for something more original from you." He crossed the room, giving his head a slight toss to free his face of his hair, and took up a position in front of the massive desk. He leaned against it, then fixed me with a narrowed look.

I remained silent, and my anger and curiosity bled together into some spangled lightplay on the vault of my mind. I ground my teeth.

Severus Snape opened his mouth slightly, drew his brows together, closed his lips in second thought, then reformed his tone and words to better effect: "Have you learned nothing since first coming to Hogwarts?" he asked me. When no answer was forthcoming, he lowered his lids a fraction and something invisible crawled across his features. His voice slithered in the space between us. "Oh yes, I forget–you lock yourself away in your silent rooms and pour over lined paper and see only what can be written in the language of mathematics. You want to understand and yet you do nothing, take no step on the path to it. The path to the simplest thing. What do you scientists call it?" He tapped a finger on the desk. "Occam's Razor."

I spoke in indignation before I recognized the folly in it. "In case you may have forgotten, I suffered a slight setback. A toxic setback."

"Only you would call it a setback."

"Indeed," I laughed harshly, "and you would call it something else?"

"I would."

"Of course you would. You would call it a failed attempt."

He pulled his robes back with his ghostly fingers and settled more firmly on the desk's surface. "Let me put this before you: alkaloids."

I measured him coldly. "Alkaloids."

"Surely you know what they are."

"Compounds containing nitrogen that can be found in plants." I was maddened, and yet my emotions shallowed as my science mind leaped forward. I hastily sought to keep my anger alive. "Your point?"

"And free amino acids? Low-molecular peptides? Nucleotides?"

"Trace elements found in neurotoxins. This is absurd."

"What is absurd, Miss Knight, is the unending hours spent breaking down these compounds in a toxin never before seen. The nights without sleep and the bottles of ink used and the fear that it would all be for nothing. What is absurd is that you should stand here in my presence and say to me that I had something to do with your attack, would condone such a thing. If that were the case I would not have troubled myself."

"Oh, so you wish me to drip with gratitude, do you?" I scoffed. "That's rich. What have you done Professor, tell me _one_ thing you've done that has served to make me think otherwise? You have been hard and aloof and altogether cruel to me from the first. You have wished me gone, drugged me against my will, injected me with venom, and made an utter fool of me before others, and yet you find it so difficult to believe that I think you capable of murder? I am at an absolute loss when it comes to your logic."

He watched me for a time, though whether he was absorbing my words or thinking of a response to them I could not say. His fingers once again worked themselves gently, playing a silent melody upon the desk. I could feel his presence swelling, his thoughts expanding, and again I was afraid. At last he spoke and his words were paced and heavy:

"You know nothing of what goes on here at Hogwarts. Nothing. You have little idea about the complexities and plots that lay boiling beneath its surface. You misunderstand, and perhaps I am partially to blame for that, though it is not my responsibility to explain your part in it. But play a part in it you do. A larger part than you could possibly know. You must never forget that this is not a place of reason, Miss Knight. There are no rules, no natural balances, and you throw caution away to speak so freely and to display such emotions. Allow me to give you some advice. Never speak of things in these drafty halls that you would not share with your worst enemy."

I clasped my arms before me as though a chill had descended in the room and said nothing more. I eyed him silently and hoped he had not mistaken the movement as an act of sulking on my part. My gaze lifted from him and took in his office once again, littered with sickly colours and dead things adrift; a small crocodile head, a puffer fish, a branch of black thorns. And then I spoke:

"I see where such tactics have landed you, Professor, and it is a lonely place. I would not wish for it, nor for your laughable degree of paranoia," I said lowly.

He sighed with annoyance. "What is laughable is your lack of understanding. You ask questions, but never stop to think that perhaps you have been asking yourself all the wrong sorts. You wail away like a lost child in a forest of wolves. You will have no one to blame but yourself when you reside in their twisting innards. And rest assured – you _will_."

"You make it sound like a children's story."

"Oh I assure you it is no children's story, Miss Knight." He rose from his position and walked the length of a bottled wall with arms crossed before him. "There are no fairy godmothers, no shining knights, and no happy endings. If nothing else, understand that. I must honestly admit I am somewhat surprised that you remain at Hogwarts, despite your curiosity. No doubt your stubbornness has everything to do with it. Either you are very brave or the word _stupidity_ is not in your book of scientific terms." He paused to study a red-tinted bottle on a shelf before him. After a heavy moment he turned on his heel and faced me, a curl on his lips. "You are not used to getting dirty, to fighting for a thing just out of reach. You live in the white tower of modern logic and lift your hem out of the chaotic mud as you walk. One day you will find, Miss Knight, that there will come a time for that tower to fall." He threw me a smirk and continued his path around his office.

My mind shot open a dozen blades, each tempered and honed with a different thought, and I suddenly knew that I would tolerate his cruelty no longer.

More games.

Very well.

"I think that _you_ are the wolf," I said slowly, looking up at him from under my brows. "I think that it is you who deceives and manipulates and looks to fill your own innards. You know that it was Katrina Dratch that poisoned me."

"I know no such thing," he said. He had come to halt.

"Oh I think you do. Shall I develop my theory a bit more so that you may understand? I think you are a pathetic man who preys upon the weak. You want to be powerful and yet you can't be greater than Dumbledore and this truth eats at you. You know you have the intellect to do wondrous things and yet you are forced to baby-sit children and spend your days marking papers. You will live the rest of your life in this hole of a dungeon and slowly rot away to nothing. You will leave nothing to history save the footnote of being a despised maker of cheap concoctions."

He turned on me then, his eyes iron nails, and his voice laced with menace. "Beware, Miss Knight. You tread dangerously."

But I could not cease, even as he began to approach me, could not stop the flow of my festering anger."Perhaps you are lonely, despite the company of Katrina Dratch. Perhaps, like an abused dog, you cower in the shadows until something passes by and you sink your teeth into it, seeking bloody retribution. You are a heartless coward, a self-important nobody. You care for nothing save your own skin." I was nearly shaking with my internal wrath; months of fear and anger and confusion and hurt came erupting out of me in Vesuvian rage. "Shall I continue, _Professor_?"

He had come to stop before me, and his eyes were pools of brimstone fury. His fingers clutched at air.

"You have no thought other than what you may gain from others," I growled. "You are despicable. Your very purpose in life is to remain the sad, empty man you are and to likewise strip others of their hearts and souls."

I had barely formed this last sentiment before I was swiftly caught up in his grip and slammed painfully into the great desk behind me. I gasped in shock. His breathing had grown harsh and his fingers pressed into my shoulders until bruises began to form.

"_Enough_. You know _nothing_," he snarled. The desk's edge pressed into my lower spine and I winced slightly. "Do not presume to know me. While I expect your anger, I do not expect your coy pity. Nor do I expect you to understand my methods. There are reasons why I take an interest in it. They are _my_ reasons and mine alone."

His face was so close that his breath fanned my eyelashes. The weight of his hips caused my back to arch painfully and the column of my neck struggled to keep my head from snapping back. One of his hands left my shoulder and wrapped itself into my hair, weaving it like a woolen thing between his fingers, closer and closer, pulling slowly until I could see naught but the upside-down image of the arched window behind the desk.

When his voice came again it was covered in velvet and crouched low like an animal ready to strike: "I will tell you this only once: Mind yourself around me, Miss Knight." His form seemed to settle, to wrap around me like a black fog. "Remember that," he hissed lowly,"and do with it what you will. Theorize it. Deconstruct it. Study it under a glass lens. But never forget."

His scent was all over me, leaking into my skin and battering my senses - and soon all thought condensed into a bright and final point in the wake of the primal heat that bloomed within me. I felt my eyes roll back and I inexplicably pressed myself up and toward him, attempting to bridge the silent gap I felt like a blood-filled magnet. And when my lips parted in surprise, I felt his hand slacken in my hair. My neck was released, and for several seconds I lay and panted beneath him, beneath his eyes that had grown volcanic and fathomless, beneath his fingers that lightly continued to hold my hair like a silken chain. His expression then shifted several times, as though he were trying on and then casting off various masks before deciding on a guarded look, and his lips drew taught. He pushed away from the desk, releasing me, and the candles dimmed obligingly in his presence.

I arose from the desk shaking.

After a moment's pause he strode to the door and flung it open before me. "Leave," he snapped.

I stood in confused upheaval and searched for a reply, although I knew none would be forthcoming. I took a tentative step toward him but he faced me with dark might and drove me through with an unsheltered eye. "_Get out_."

For several seconds I stood unmoving, and then I squared my shoulders and at last moved the distance to step over the office's threshold. As I passed him, the tips of my hair caught at his robes like spiders' webs, drawing around the cloth and pulling me back ever so slightly. I chanced a furtive glance over my right shoulder and saw that he was watching the strands, following their path until they fell from him and back to their places at my hips. His eyes snapped up to mine then, and there was a shade of something indescribable in their depths.

The door closed firmly with a sound that echoed into the classroom.

And quite suddenly I recognized it now, what was there, crouched behind the potion master's depthless pupils.

It had been fear.


	12. Doll's Eyes

Chapter Twelve – _Doll's Eyes_

As I think on it now, back to the events of that night in the Potion master's rooms and the strange events that soon followed, I cannot help but be awed by the most _unscientific_ topic of destiny. And although Dumbledore may look at me now and speak of things that are _meant to be_, there is still a hardened scientist in my being that refuses to entertain such fancies. And yet . . . and yet there are still those signs that I simply cannot dismiss as coincidence, as mere probability. Was I-am I-a walking pawn, following the path laid out for me long ago? Was every word, every glance, every movement crafted beforehand in a space and time unknowable to us and yet part of us, of our beings?

Ah, I can dwell on such things now. Then I was still too scarred and blind to know anything except sheer determination and a festering sense of my own importance.

Or perhaps _unimportance_.

Yes. That is what it was.

* * *

As my feet carried me toward the classroom's exit, my limping foot kicked forward a glass vial - one of the vials that had fallen from the Potion master's robes in my earlier struggle. It rolled with a soft and melodious series of clangs until it struck up against the hallway door, and I bent down to retrieve it, casting a look over my shoulder to confirm that I was not being watched. Seeing that the Potion Master had withdrawn back into his private shadows, I eyed the vial lightly. Its label had been written in a tiny, cramped hand, and the ink had smeared at one corner. This detail gave the item a sinister, fouled air to my mind. I did not think the Potions Master one to overlook such an imperfection, no matter how slight. He had written the label in haste. I brought the vial up to my face and looked at the brown root-like substance within, turning it over and over for any identifiable properties. It gave off a soft glow, imbued with apparent harmlessness, and revolving in its liquid ether with slothful grace. Again I looked at its label, but could discern nothing from the name thereon. 

A sound like a pillowed shriek came from the hallway then, beyond the classroom. Shocked, I leapt forward and pressed my palms into the previously impassible door, which gave immediately, almost humorously. I stumbled into the space before me, my every muscle coiled in expectant flight.

At the center of the hallway, at the base of the dungeon stairs, stood Katrina Dratch. She held one delicate hand out before her, the fingertips scarlet with blood, while in her other she gripped a small trowel. Her eyes raced between the vibrant splash of crimson and to something below on the hallway floor, but when she saw my figure she turned and fled up the stairs, her gown following like the backward flow of ink.

I made my way as quickly as possible down the length of the hallway, cursing my weak leg as I heard her steps grow gradually distant. When I was at the base of the stairwell I looked down and saw a scattering of soil, and next to it, reflecting the torchlight, tiny beads of fresh blood. I lifted my eyes to the stairs and saw the droplets as they continued their path upward, leading a crooked path to the light beyond. Slowly I climbed, seeking out the ghastly crumbs as my eyes adjusted to the light. At the top of the stairs they veered to the left and I followed, all the while keeping my ears cocked for the sounds of running steps or whispering cloth.

Halfway down the upper hallway, the droplets vanished. I came to a halt, then looked about me for a potential means of escape but found none. Determined, I walked the remaining length of the hallway until it opened into the central entrance hall. It was woefully empty. I spent some minutes making wide circles in the hall, trying once again to pick up the scent left by Katrina Dratch, but was forced to eventually admit defeat; she had disappeared completely. I dug my nails into my palms in frustration. What had she been doing in the dungeons? And with a trowel? Had the Potions master known she was down there? Did he have anything to do with it?

I stood in the center of the entrance hall, gazing at the nearly full moon as it sat, partitioned and coloured, beyond the large stain-glass window as the questions came and went.

_Perhaps you have been asking yourself all of the wrong sorts_.

"Perhaps," I whispered.

* * *

When I had at last locked the door to my rooms behind me and had thrown myself into one of the wing chairs before the fireplace, I opened my palm to reveal the small vial I had picked up in the potions classroom. I had had it clutched, temporarily forgotten, within my grip when I had startled Katrina Dratch in the dungeons. I now held it up once again and examined its label with more care. I made out the scrawl of the letter "p" and what I took to be either a "k" or an "h". I rose and brought the vial to one of the work tables, and moved several candles onto the wooden surface to better study it. I dug into a nearby box of instruments until my fingers found a small pair of surgical steel pliers, which I pulled out. Pinching the label lightly between the pliers' tips, I delicately pulled it away from the glass. It felt wondrous to once again have my thoughts focused on something mundane, with the familiar feel of a scientific instrument in my hands. I felt a soft veil of contentment fall over me. 

With gentle working, the label at last peeled free. I placed pliers, vial, and label aside, then rose from the chair and made my way to the Revival cabinet. A tiered box of instruments sat atop it, lined with a deep blue velvet and had an antiqued catch. As I opened it, the tiers unfolded on their hinges, and I plucked my way through the rows of glass lenses until I spotted the monocle at the very bottom of its night-time depths. I withdrew it, and then my eyes fell upon the cabinet itself, and I was conscious of my teeth worry my bottom lip. I stood, letting the candlelight play upon the twin doors for several moments, then bent and pulled them open.

There, hidden in the shadows and wrapped in black crepe, was the form of a long-necked bottle. Seemingly of its own accord, my hand reached in and grasped it, and my fingers stroked the thin fabric longingly. I pulled it free of the darkness, letting the crepe float to the floor, and eyed it warily. _My poor dear, wrapped in widow's weeds. _What harm would it do,I asked myself. No one will know. Only Professor Snape knows it sits in my cabinet, and what do I care what he thinks after all?

I pocketed the monocle, then went through the sublime ritual of pouring a glass of absinthe. Ah, it was glorious to see the colors swirl, to see the flames glow blue and frame the whiteness of the sugar cube, devouring it, pulling it down, down, to sleep within the glass.

Once prepared, I lifted the glass and with careful step returned to the work table. I pulled the monocle from my pocket and set it and the glass down on the surface, then turned to a stack of old books loaned to me some time ago from the library. Musing over their pages, I pulled one aside – a 17h century herbal – and brought it with me to my crude scientific layout.

Placing the monocle to my right eye, I lifted the vial's label and held it before the candle flame. The parchment grew golden in front of the light and the smeared and tiny ink faded somewhat in its opacity, but after some study I was able to discern the letters in full. Dipping a quill, I quickly wrote the symbols I saw there upon a slip of paper, then pulled the monocle from my eye and set it aside.

Bringing the absinthe to my nose so that I could breathe in its familiar bouquet, I pulled the herbal to me and lifted its calfskin cover and leafed gently through its pages, careful not to pull too harshly lest the fine paper rip under my fingers. Within the text I at last came upon the name of the root I had written down, printed beside an engraving of a gaunt, white-eyed human. Tiny, cloven-hoofed devils floated above his form, and they seemed to find glee in his eerily vacant expression. A fresh, empty grave lay open to his right.

_The Roote of Asphodel, _I read as my finger followed the print, _when Made together in portions_ _ov the Wormwoode Essence, will brewe rightly the Draught of the Living Dead. _

I had to read it again so that I could absorb the implications.

Wormwood.

The active ingredient in absinthe.

* * *

When I had at last let sleep overtake me in the peach-colored dawn hours, it was not to be for long. A class was taking part out on the spread of earth beneath my rooms' windows, and their boisterous banter kept me from putting my thoughts to rest. I reluctantly rose and made my way to the window and squinted down at the juvenile crowd. Professor Sprout, it seemed, had decided that a formal study of Hogwarts greenery was needed for her class, in particular the hands-on study of a small weed that had obligingly seeded itself in the ground before my window. 

I ran my hands over my face and yawned loudly, then looked further beyond the little group and toward the nameless wooded hut. From there my gaze swept to the right and to the Forbidden Forest. In the morning glow it looked like something enchanted; a lovely place where I fancied birds sang and deer frolicked and perhaps a princess was stringing rosebuds in her tresses. It looked. . . deliciously inviting.

Having dressed myself I made my way down to the Grand Staircase, taking every precaution that I should time my quest at the precise moment when both students and teachers would be most occupied elsewhere. Walking with purpose and with as long a stride as I could manage, I skirted the castle's northernmost flank and kept tightly to the edifice until I was in a position to view the forest undetected.

I had not the slightest idea what I was looking for, and so I told myself that a quiet and solitary walk would do wonders for my being, and what better place for a contemplative stroll than a shaded wood? How pastoral. How utterly delightful. Of course, I would not go too far lest something _did_ happen, and then I would be close enough to return to Hogwarts in a timely manner. Convincing myself of these safeguards, I made my way tentatively beyond the first natural barricade of trees and, not sensing any danger, walked further until the sunlight could no longer warm me in its rays.

Immediately I noted that the forest was no stage for bejeweled songbirds-the grating funereal dirges of ravens rang through the still air instead and seemed to shroud me the deeper I went. An occasional rustle of leaves and undergrowth would stop me in my tracks, but all were the sounds of small creatures and only frightened me momentarily.

I closed my eyes and let my thoughts weave a tapestry of remembrance.

_Circles within circles . . . a tooth in the mouth of a god . . . black is the grave and white is the womb . . .what did you find in the wood? _

_A dead light. _

_I found a dead light._

I sighed in frustration and lifted my lids slightly. It all made little sense, and perhaps it all meant nothing. It was silly really, that I was giving any credence to it at all. Circles within circles indeed. Cats with jaunty hats spouting nonsense. My, but London's psychologists would no doubt have a few words to say about that!

"Coo-coo," I said to no one. The ravens murmured.

I walked for another fifteen minutes, careful to note my surroundings as I could no longer gauge my position by the sun, and came to a stop at the top of a small and heavily wooded valley. Before me I could see several fallen and rotting logs, and beneath them a carpet of dead leaves. The hills rolled away before me like golden and black calico, but of a faded glory. The trees here had no growth whatsoever on their lower trunks, and the effect was one of being a flea in an enormous amount of dense fur. Spindly, spindly. And dangerously empty.

I decided then to head back toward the castle, but to make my way further south so that I would come out of the forest on the opposite side of where I had first ventured in. I could perhaps see more land that way. As I made to turn, something caught my eye at the bottom of the valley. It was a marking on one of the trees, and I was stunned that I had not noticed it before since the color was of such a vibrant red that it shone like a beacon amongst the otherwise monochromatic landscape. I stumbled slightly down the side of the valley as I approached the marked tree, and noted that the crimson mark took the form of a symbol upon its ragged bark. I did not immediately recognize its significance, nor could I successfully call it up from any of the books I had read, and so spent some time committing it to memory so that I might investigate it at length when I returned to my rooms.

It was then I noticed the glow.

At the base of the tree a small pile of earth and leaves looked recently disturbed, and the mound radiated in an eerie and unnatural way. From between gaps in the leaves and dirt a light leaked out like a slow poison and swirled about the base of the tree in a fine yellow mist.

_A dead light._

I desperately looked about me for a good-sized twig, and upon finding one I slowly prodded the mound, my legs tense with the instinct to jump away should something unexpected pop out from its hiding place. But the mound did not stir. Flicking away bits of earth from its surface, I managed to remove several centimeters of the top soil until something discernable could be seen. I bent closer so that I might have a better look.

It was an eye.

A human eye, glazed over and peppered with bits of dirt. It gazed blindly back at me, and just beneath it the glimmer of a tooth grew out of the debris like a rotting ivory sprout.

Now I will admit here that I may be of a scientific mind, but I have never proposed that I am not a coward despite it. And perhaps you should think that the proper thing to do upon such a discovery–and with such a predisposition as mine–would be to fully unearth the thing in the ground and determine precisely what it was that I had stumbled across.

But I do also believe that were you there at that exact moment in time, alone and surrounded by that ominous woodland darkness and the cry of ravens overhead, and the ever-twisting otherworldly light rising toward you from the vacant pupil of a glassy eye, and that ferocious tooth rising in your direction so that you felt it like a finger pointing at your heart, you would have done as I did.

Pulse hammering, I dropped the twig and ran in a loping gait back up the crest of the valley. I was sure the thing was mere steps behind me, that it had stiffly pulled itself up from its rotting home and was now pursuing me with eyes of sickly light and teeth that stuck out at all angles, jumping like a corpse-formed insect in the impressions of my footsteps. I did not stop, did not turn, but ran blindly in the direction from whence I had come, dragging in sobbing breaths and willing my leg to not give out on me. My sightline focused on only what was immediately before me, and my ears gradually shut out all sounds except for my heavy breathing and the crunching of twigs and leaves underfoot. I knew that if I chanced a look over my shoulder the thing would be there, directly behind me, its decayed fingers scratching at my shoulder and its breath on my neck and a gaping, ragged-toothed O of a mouth eating my hair into itself, swallowing me. How the imagination blossoms at such times! I continued to run through that dark and twisted wood for what seemed like centuries with an exploding heart in my chest.

Breaking through the surface line of the forest trees, I threw myself out into the sunny openness of the Hogwarts grounds with all of my might, as though sanctuary was to be had precisely where the tree roots stopped. I rolled over several times until I came to a halt in the golden grass and discovered I had landed under the eaves of the grounds keeper's hut. Lifting my face, I scanned the line of trees for the eye, the light, the tooth–anything unholy–and was instead comforted to hear the sounds of student voices drifting down the hill to me. Classes had just ended, and the students, ignorant of my personal horror, were moving to and fro about the grounds and chattering light-heartedly above me.

I rolled over onto my back and pressed a palm to my ribs where a cramp had formed, and desperately tried to regulate my ragged breathing. The hut itself was silent.

Something caused me to turn my head to the left just then, where blades of grass tickled and poked my cheek, and I saw him.

The Potions master was well hidden within the curving shadows of an arched walkway, but I could nonetheless feel his gaze on me–his black eyes sparked and gave his position away. They emitted something sharp and fine-tuned, as though there were an invisible string between us that, were I to reach out and strum it, would cut into my finger mercilessly.

I wondered for how long he had been there, watching–indeed, if he knew what had befallen me, perhaps somehow even orchestrated it–but he turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness of a nearby hallway before I could contemplate the matter further.

_Run, _I thought. _But you cannot hide from me.. And I will catch you yet._

The irony, of course, was lost on me at the time.

* * *

When I held a tiny vial of serpentine liquid before Severus Snape later that evening in his empty classroom, he pursed his lips and gave me a look that said he had more important issues at hand. 

"I want you to test this," I stated flatly.

He ignored me and went back to scribbling upon a stack of parchments before him. When I did not leave he at last replied irritably"I don't have to test it, Miss Knight. It is absinthe. It is made up of wormwood and alcohol and anise, most likely angelica root and nutmeg as well, from what I remember of its scent." His hand worked quickly and ink slashed across his students' efforts without restraint.

I steeled myself. "But I want you to test _this_ absinthe," I insisted"and I wish to watch you do it."

He slammed his quill down and his voice grew tight. "Miss Knight. Perhaps you do not fully appreciate the fact that I have little time for your ridiculous ideas and the abnormal amount of effort required to keep myself from throwing you and your vial out of my classroom. If you want it tested, test it yourself. You seem to have an abundance of time of late." He shot me a sour look and once again focused on his parchments.

"You know I don't have the knowledge to test it properly."

"Yes, well, that is no fault of mine. You were the one who no longer wished to be tutored. Now kindly stop whinging and leave my classroom." He dipped his quill and continued to scribble violently.

I knew I would have to give away a bit more than I wished in order to have my needs met. He was a curious one, after all. I banked on it.

"I want you to test this absinthe for traces of a root."

"Do I need to repeat myself, Miss Knight?"

"Root of Asphodel," I said quickly. "You know the one, Professor Snape. The one that, when mixed with wormwood creates the Draught of the Living Dead. The one that fell from your pocket last night."

His hand stilled, and I sensed his emotions shift subtlety.

"Ah. I see." His reply was lazy, not defensive as I had anticipated.

His approach confused me. "Do you?"

"Indeed." He set his quill down and crossed his fingers before him. "I put Root of Asphodel in your precious absinthe, is that what you believe?"

"Ye..yes, that is what I believe. It proves my theory entirely. It was _you_ who poisoned me–only you know where I keep the absinthe. I know now that it was you." I gripped the vial tightly in my palm. I surely gave away too much; he would now rise from his desk and come toward me, wrap his long and delicate fingers around my throat and finish the job he had set out to do. _Damn my temper_, I cursed. I eyed him warily. Candlelight lit the classroom like a Victorian stage, and I felt with sinking heart that the final act was at last about to play out.

The sneer that crept over his lips was genuine. "How amusing. Last night you were quite sure it was Katrina Dratch. Really, Miss Knight," he stood up and pulled his robes back with long fingers, then stepped down to the classroom floor, "your methods of deduction leave something to be desired."

As he strode toward me I stepped back hastily, clenching my fists in preparation for his lethal attack. The look on his face was one of utter disdain as he glanced over me, over my balled fists. He passed me and made his way between the desks; his voice echoing against the stone walls: "Come along, Miss Knight. Bring your vial here and we shall test it together." His tone was insufferably patronizing, but I followed him nonetheless and found myself at one of the tables alongside the back wall where an extensive potions apparatus stood.

I remained a good distance from him, but close enough so that I could follow his every movement.

"Now," he said, plucking a small jar filled with roots from a group of twenty or more on the table, "we shall do a controlled experiment so that you will know what to look for." He lifted an eyebrow in expectation of a debate, but when I nodded in agreement he turned back to the glasswork before him.

"This," he explained as he held up the small bottle, "is Root of Asphodel, or onionweed." He held the bottle with its label in full sight so that I might read it. "It has many properties and is used for various potions . . .the Draught of the Living Dead amongst them."

With growing awareness I realized how much he enjoyed the position in which he now found himself–one of power over me, over my knowledge. It no doubt made him feel extremely special. I fought to keep my patience in check and always with the idea in mind that I was to at last have the final laugh.

Producing a cutting knife from one of his robe pockets, he pulled one of the roots free from its glass home and expertly cut the tip from it. I watched the blade as it worked through the root and came to rest against the pad of his thumb, noting his skill and filing it away in my mind.

"If we place traces of the root, which is high in linoleic acid, in a concentration of model neuromelanins–say, cysteinyldopamine-melanin . . .you are following this, are you not, Miss Knight? The neuromelanin will show a marked reaction when it inhibits the nitrotyrosine formations and will produce a white, fizzing effect. Watch closely."

Placing the root fragment in a small dish, he then poured a small amount of clear liquid upon it. At first nothing occurred. And then, peroxide-like, the root's surface began to bubble and hiss as the chemicals began to react to one another. Within minutes the root was conquered, a skinless and prone thing in its glass coffin.

"Now place your vial's contents in the dish if you would, Miss Knight." He was all confidence, and I wanted desperately to wipe that confounded smirk off of his face.

I poured the absinthe sample into a fresh dish, and at an encouraging nod from him, poured some of the clear liquid into the mix.

We both watched for a reaction–any reaction–I in a state of nervous uncertainty and he with quiet smugness.

Nothing happened.

Severus Snape looked at me from the corner of one of his black eyes and I could just make out the stirrings of a curling, silent smile on his lips.

"You look disappointed, Miss Knight."

I ignored him. Could I have been so wrong in my assumptions? A feeling of helplessness began to grow within me; I knew nothing after all. I had seen with my own eyes that my absinthe was untainted–had empirical proof. Scientific law. Could I have been fooled?

He watched me silently for some time, watched the confusion ebb and flow over my expression.

"Legilimens," he said.

"What?" I asked, but then I suddenly felt a pressure on my skull unlike anything I had experienced before. I put a hand to my temple and took a cautious step back. I found it difficult to focus, to keep a calm thought. A small whirlwind had gathered in my mind and random bits of knowledge flew around in its wake like so many leaves.

The Potions master watched me intently.

"You went into the forest this morning," he said simply. There was no accusation behind the statement, no anger. Not even curiosity. His eyes were lazy when he spoke, but they pinned me to the spot as effectively as iron barbs.

"I don't see where that is any of your business," I murmured. And then, without a doubt, I _knew_ he was there, in my mind. I still to this day have a difficult time describing exactly what it is like when an expert in Legilimency breaks into your thoughts. It is not unlike watching someone rummage through your things and being completely unable to do anything to stop them. It is both appalling and maddening. Of course I did not know then that I had a natural talent for deflecting Legilimency. I knew only that I sensed a silent intruder walking the halls of my mind and I threw up any defense I could think of at the time. I must have made things very difficult for Severus Snape that night. The thought now fills me with an odd sense of nostalgic humor. Then it filled me only with a sense of unease and anger.

He leaned against the work table and kept his black gaze on me.

"Why were you in the forest, Miss Knight?"

I made my mind a blank wall and thought of milk oceans, snow-filled canyons, worlds of nothingness.

His eyes narrowed, and I again felt the _prick_ of something in my head.

My muscles tightened. _Get out of my skull, you bastard._

His thin fingers drummed on his knee and he kept his gaze on me, all the time pressing, pressing. I smiled tightly. He considered me for a moment, then rose to his feet.

"Well we can't have that," he said. He crossed his arms before him and came closer. His presence bled into the masonry around us, engulfing my frame like a growing shadow.

He stepped around me with winter in his face and allowed his robes to brush me.

I felt my heartbeat climb to the next plateau. "You don't frighten me," I said.

"No?" He continued his pattern around me, circling closer so that the hem of his robes now slithered about my feet and ankles. "Perhaps not." He came to a stop behind my form and spoke into my hair, his breath stirring it in soft menace"Something else, then."

It was not a question.

I said nothing. I focused instead on keeping my mind locked from him.

He stood silently behind me for what felt like minutes, only giving his position away by the heat rising off of him. And his scent. Always his glorious scent.

I remained still. Determined and closed.

And then I felt his fingers on my tresses. They were pulling aside the curtain of hair from my neck, exposing its nape to him.

I closed my eyes, felt the slow thaw of resolve with the mingled coolness of the classroom air and the warmth of his fingertips as they lifted my hair over my shoulder, felt them brush a quiet but deliberate whisper over the contour of my breast, felt the heat deliciously and unexpectedly explode from below and shoot through my veins like a jolt of lightning.

Then the pressing was there again in my mind, weak but insistent.

A vision formed: I saw myself spinning around; heard the words of a shocked and angry warning come from my lips; felt the sting as my palm met with marble-white skin; saw the look of knowing amusement shimmer over black pools of light. And then I knew I could not chance such a thing–could not lose control of myself. What he was searching for I had little idea. Why I had never noticed this formless intrusion before, why he chose other methods to extract information from me in the past, I knew even less. I knew, however, that I felt it acutely now, and I resented him more than ever for it. Whether the thing I had discovered in the woods was of any importance to him I knew nor cared not–I simply was conscious of the fact that I would not divulge its secret to him now that he had chosen sly invasion over the act of respecting my privacy.

"Tell me something, Miss Knight," his low voice now said into my exposed ear, his lips just tickling its hot fleshy contours, "tell me why you were running from the forest." I felt his fingertips once again brush my nape, and I started. His thumb delicately traced something there–a symbol–before trailing gently over my exposed shoulder and coming to a rest against the warm hollow above my collarbone. His long fingers curled ever so gracefully across and around the front of my neck; I could not help but be reminded of a skillful serpent encircling an unsuspecting prey before the life is snuffed from it.

I stopped breathing.

_I will never tell you, _I thought. I flung it into the openness of my mind so that he would grasp upon it. To see if perhaps I had been mistaken all along.

A slight pause, and then like a switchblade knife his fingers splayed out from the palm in a sudden movement, grabbing hold of my jaw and forcing me around to face him. His eyes pierced me with such weight that I would have fallen backward had his grip not been so fierce.

I then felt the full affect of his sharp and probing eye, sifting through the memories in my mind, kicking them up like so much dust as he tore through them, pulling them up and discarding them like worthless trinkets as he searched. And yet through it all his face remained expressionless, even bored, and his body language was deceptively relaxed. Had someone disturbed us it would no doubt seem that we were merely gazing fondly at one another.

His manipulation was masterful indeed. I was the violin he played so easily, and this realization burned into my being hatefully.

I blindly threw my right hand out to the table, my fingers stumbling over all manner of items until they hit upon the recognizable shape of the knife he had used earlier. I managed to grasp it tightly in my palm and bring it up to the level of my shoulder, arching it like a tiny spear as it flashed golden in the candlelight.

But a sudden blur of movement in the corner of my right eye confirmed that he had seen this attack coming, and I felt his fingers wrap about my wrist painfully.

"That is a mistake you do not wish to make," he said, his voice low with menace, and his fingers dug into the soft hollow of my wrist until the knife fell to the floor with an echoing _clang_.

I stepped away from him, attempted to break the contact, but he held me firmly. I thought he might even shake me as he had before, so serious was his intent. My mind was now reeling with loose thoughts, spinning whirlwinds of memories, and I struggled once again to shut it down.

"What secrets are you hiding, Miss Knight" he prompted, his eyes narrowing as he dug deeper into the soil of my subconscious. The fingers on my wrist tightened painfully.

"Leave me alone," I gasped angrily. "You have no right to do this."

He considered my words for a moment, then just as quickly discarded them, and he was there again in my head, searching.

My mind's eye watched in horror as the memories unearthed in my head and revealed themselves, saw in vibrant color the memory of the lust I felt the night before, stretched out across his desk beneath him and burning like a wanton flame.

We both knew what he had uncovered and I felt my face flush with shame.

I expected him to make a snide remark then, perhaps to gloat openly, but his expression remained unmoved.

The fingers that held my jaw now slid gently back down to my throat and stopped there; my excited pulse vibrated through his fingertips and the betrayal was complete.

"What did you find in the forest, Miss Knight?" he asked.

I closed my eyes and remained silent.

"Look at me," he said, and the deceptively gentle words were heavy with threat. When I lifted my lashes I saw that his face was mere inches from mine and his eyes burned, but not with the fear I had witnessed the night before. Behind those fathomless depths lay the very same emotion I had witnessed on the day he had found me in Remus's office. It was indescribably filled with anger. And something else.

His pressed me backward now, driving me into the desk so that I was pinned against its planks, all the while keeping his eyes locked on mine until I thought I would disintegrate in their obsidian heat.

"I grow tired of this constant sparring, Miss Knight," he drawled,"and as enjoyable as it is to see you flounder about in your seemingly endless ignorance, it is nevertheless imperative that you come to the realization that you put others in danger with your every action. Think of me as you wish, come to whatever conclusion you will regarding my motives, I assure you I don't care. But you _will_ tell me what it is I want to know." His fingers dug deep. "Now I will ask you once more," he said, and his lips drew nearer and I could see the flash of teeth, "what . . . did you find . . . in the forest?"

And as I looked into his eyes it was if I heard a fragile egg split wide open in my mind, its contents oozing like formless white lava so that a iridescent stain spread into every crevice.

_A dead light._

_Circles within circles. I found a dead light. _

_I found a dead light! Dead light! Dead light! Dead light!_

With a crack of blacknessagainst the wall of my skull I was there again in the sky-less forest valley, looking down at the sickly glow that arose from the soil at my feet. Before my eyes, inches from my shoe, small white shoots broke through the earth's surface and stretched, growing, reaching, until they hardened and formed something akin to human teeth.

Something beneath me was wearing a horrible smile.

Above the unholy grin came the soft rustling of leaves as black matted stalks began to also break from the ground and stretch straight up, unwinding and growing several feet into the air, weaving like charmed snakes, curling in the stagnant atmosphere and then going taunt again like black seaweed caught in an undercurrent.

Hair.

My mouth formed a silent scream and I stumbled back from the thing before me, away from its fiendish birth, only to trip painfully over the end of something I held in my hand. When I fell to the ground I looked to my right and saw that I held in my palm a long spade. Its metal edge was crusted with thick black mud, curling like a lip along its apex.

_Black is the grave._

My ankle was then nudged by a gentle movement, and I looked down the length of my leg to see pale toes rising like white stones against the hem of my gown, the nails green with rot. They pushed aside my foot as they unearthed themselves, rising steadily and ever so gently.

I turned and scrambled on my hands and knees away from the thing, panting, dragging the spade with me. When I was several yards away I stumbled to my feet and swung the spade around so that it pointed at the monster like the knowing hand of a compass.

It lay half-buried still, but had ceased growing like a terrible weed. I could now see the pale crest of a skull sitting amongst the black reeds of hair, its eye sockets still buried, and a hissing sound began to issue from it- from the place where its mouth should have been-vaporous and fetid. My chest rose and fell painfully as I gasped for breath. I held the spade with white knuckles.

It was whispering.

Whispering something in such a familiar way, in such a gentle way. It sounded as if several mouths spoke all at once. I drew closer by a step despite myself, the spade upright and ready to strike.

Again it whispered to me in familiar words, telling me something. Something very important. Something meant only for me.

I crept cautiously forward, my feet sinking ever so slightly in the moist soil as I approached it, drawn to the matted hair as it made soft flourishes in the pale air, gently waving me to come closer still.

The head of the spade dropped below the level of my shoulder as I took in the full image of the half-buried thing, and my eye glanced a silvery shining that sparkled like a star-filled night, there just beneath the horizon of earth between teeth and toe at the monster's mid section.

I _knew_ those stars, that sparkling, reflected light.

How?

The whispering continued like siren song and I inched ever closer. The monster's breath clouded the air with foulness, congesting in clouds of poison that spread like a mist over the ground, crawling over the ivory teeth-sprouts and around the hem at my feet. And the creature continued speaking words . . .no, not words as such. As I cocked my head I could now hear that it was one word over and over again.

When I was nearly on top of the thing, bent over it with my eyes locked on the place where the teeth-sprouts did not move but spoke to me nonetheless, when I thought I could get no closer without pressing my face to the stagnant mix of black rot-flesh and mud, it spoke a name into my ear.

The blood in my veins froze with terror.

And then it spoke the name again.

I did not move immediately but remained immobile over it and listened to the hissing sound emanating from it, heard the name repeated over and over again like a wailing mantra. And then, after some moments, I calmly straightened up and looked down at the thing in the earth.

Without a word I lifted the spade over my head and swung it down, splitting the teeth apart, effectively severing the brittle skull from its wretched body. I lifted it once again and brought it down on the silver glow where its abdomen lay. It struck with painful metallic force, sending a reverberating shock down the length of my arms. I used the toe of my shoe to coldly kick the topsoil away, exposing some of the silvery surface and to determine its vulnerability. It seemed more liquid than substance to my eyes. Satisfied, I once again lifted the spade and gripped the wooden handle with both hands, my teeth clenched in expectation of the unavoidable jolt of metal against metal.

When the edge of the spade was whistling through the air on its downward arc, I suddenly stilled my hand just short of cleaving the accursed creature in half.

With wide and disbelieving eyes I dropped the spade and fell to my knees before what my shoe had uncovered, digging around the silver surface, scraping my fingertips against it until my teeth were on edge with the sound of it and I had at last removed all of the earth from its exterior.

It was a metal corset.

Blind horror gripped me in pulsating rings. Choking on the ghastly fumes that still blanketed the scene, I turned and scrambled for where the skull lay, still half-covered as though it had washed up from the shores of Hades.

My fingers madly clawed it out of its grave, bits of flesh catching under my nails, and the act brought a gag to my throat and I had to press my face into my shoulder until it had passed, and I gripped the crown of the skull and yanked it from its home with a wet ripping noise, and bits of soil and root fell from the hole of its nose and hung like yellowed blood vessels over the gap where its jaw should have been, and there in their hollowed nests sat the eyes, as fresh and plump as the day they were formed.

They stared back at me, back into mirrors of themselves.

My eyes.

Me.

Dropping the skull, I gasped in the foul air and began to choke violently, wanting to scream and yet unable to find the breath to do so. I felt a blackness crowd the corners of my vision and nausea rose like a wave in my throat.

Invisible hands grasped me by my shoulders and I began to moan weakly as they shook me, until the blackness overtook me and the forest dropped away into nothingness and I heard the Potion master's voice speaking firmly in the corner of my mind, as though reaching me through stalacitic caverns.

Gradually the insistent voice grew stronger, and light began to leak slowly under my eyelids.

"Miss Knight," came the voice, and it was the first time I sensed uncertainty in it.

I opened my eyes and found myself with my back on the work table and Severus Snape standing over me, his brows drawn together and a small muscle in his jaw ticking angrily.

When he saw that I had my eyes open his fingers gripped my shoulders and he pulled me to my feet impatiently. "Get up. Do you hear me? You must get up and show me this place in the forest."

I weakly shook my head and remained leaning against the table. I struggled to come to terms with what I had experienced; what I had seen, and more importantly what I had heard. I wrapped my arms around myself and remained still. I did not want to speak. I felt unbelievably diseased.

The Potions Master released me and stood to his full height above me, then crossed his arm before him as was his particular habit.

"Perhaps I was unclear," he said slowly, his voice once again laced with menace.

I said nothing. I did not look at him. I felt as though I might retch.

"What elementary particle is the exchange particle for the gravitational force?" he demanded suddenly.

I could not reply; I could only stare ahead and allow my mind to analyze the nightmare of black hair and rancid flesh and the glaze of an eye as it stared into my heart.

"_Answer me,_" he said. His voice cut through the air as effectively as a whip, snapping me painfully from my thoughts.

His words were laden with annoyance and impatience as he repeated the question in a long and condescending breath: "I want you to tell me what elementary particle is the exchange particle for the gravitational force and I do hope that I will not need to repeat myself Miss Knight as I know you can hear me."

"A graviton," I whispered.

"Correct. You are a bit slow in answering Miss Knight. Let's try again. What is the term for an unsaturated hydrocarbon with at least one double carbon-carbon bond? Quickly, Miss Knight."

"An alkene," I replied. I shifted my eyes to him.

"Again, you are too slow. I have students in remedial classes that can answer questions in less time than you. Which compound appears to be two benzene rings linked side by side?"

"Naphthalene."

"That is incorrect," he snapped. "I doubt you would last one week in my remedial classes. The correct answer is phenol." His lip curled in a self-satisfied sneer. "Really, and I merely make . . . cheap concoctions, wasn't it, Miss Knight? _You_ are the knowledgeable scientist here, are you not?"

"Phenol is used in phenolic resins and lack the double benzene," I replied. "And would be ideal should you ever wish to make yourself a pair of nylon stockings, Professor." I thought I caught a tiny flash of amusement on his lips, but it was surely my imagination. "Naphthalene is white tar and is found in mothballs. Did you want me to discuss methylnaphthalenes as well?"

Severus Snape lifted an eyebrow and sighed in apparent boredom. "That won't be necessary, Miss Knight."

Uncomfortable silence floated between us for some minutes. Reality grew warmer, brighter, in my being. I was in the Potions classroom. I was alive. This was real. And then:

"I . . I . . .did you _see?_" I asked him. "Did you see it?"

"I did," he replied.

"I don't understand," I whispered. "I don't understand what happened. It felt so incredibly _real_. I was there. Was I there?" I asked him. I didn't know why I thought he would know. I simply felt the absolute need to reach out to someone, anyone. Even Severus Snape.

"I cannot say. It acted like a memory and yet it was not," he said irritably. "I want you to show me where this place is, Miss Knight. And I want you to do it of your own volition."

"Why should I?" I asked, suddenly suspicions. "Why should I do anything you want of me? You don't respect me. You certainly don't like me. You violate what is mine and you use my feelings cruelly against me for your own ends. To be honest I don't know what disgusts me more; your methods, or what lies in the ground in the forest."

"Fair enough," he replied cooly. "As I said before, it is entirely your decision. Go to Dumbledore, if you wish. Go to Octavia. Go to Remus if the fancy takes you-he doubtless wouldn't mind that. Go home, if that is what you want. I have other things that require my attention at this school, and I can't be bothered to waste my time playing guessing games with you any longer. I will be blunt: I know things you do not and this puts me at a great advantage. This thing will not go away and should you decide to stay at Hogwarts it is something that you will need to face eventually. You have caught yourself in a very large web, Miss Knight, a very large and _tangled_ web. If you wish me to leave you alone and allow you to carry on as you have done, I will. Not that it has gotten you far. Rest assured I have bigger worries than the missteps of a woefully inept scientist on a pointless crusade."

I watched him intently, weighed his words. "Then why do you wish to help me at all?"

He fairly snorted. "You misunderstand where my concern lies," he said. "What is happening to you is bigger than Davina Knight. It potentially has an effect on Hogwarts, on those within it, on _me_. It is obviously, therefore, a concern."

"And so I am the canary in the coal mine," I said bitterly. That_ is_ what you mean, is it not?"

He shrugged. "Look at it in any way that suits you. Carry on in any way that suits you. But you stand a far greater chance if it is I that have my hand on the birdcage's rope."

I ran a hand over my face slowly and looked him baldly in the eye. "But how do I know I can trust you?"

"Miss Knight," he sighed patronizingly, leaning in on me and placing his hands on either side of my hips, his fingers splayed out on the table surface,"must I always repeat myself?" He brought his face toward mine until there was only a distance of inches between us.

"Trust no one."


End file.
